


Alive Back From The Dead

by Anaamikaa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Counseling, F/M, Female John Watson, Femlock, Gen, Genderswap, Heavy Angst, Mycroft's Meddling, Overprotective Mycroft, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, girl!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3724996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaamikaa/pseuds/Anaamikaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lives. Joan loses it. Mycroft intervenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clear Blue Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing of counseling whatsoever, marriage or otherwise. Whatever I've written henceforth is completely made-up. This is how it goes in the story because--well, because these two are so weird, they can't possibly have normal counseling. Besides, what kind of "friends" go through counseling?  
> And this might sound sadistic, but I've got a request. Tell me if it hurts. I beg of you. I've always wanted to be a word-weaver that could evoke emotions out of the most unfeeling people. Also, I want to be able to tag this as heavy angst and since I wrote this, I can't feel it. Can't feel the pain. So help me out here. _/\\_

 

* * *

 

 

     “British female, formerly of the RAMC. Joan Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand and St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. An army doctor, but currently working as a general pract—“

     “No, Sherlock. Describe _her_. Her features. Not—everything else.”

     Sherlock raises his chin and begins once more. “She is in her late thirties, five feet and six point five inches tall. Well built. Eye colour blue, mid-back length blonde hair—previously, a military cut. No visible scars. One on left shoulder as a result of a bullet injury in action. ”

     Joan and Thompson share a glance. Joan purses her lips and looks away, the fingers of her left hand flexing where it rests in her lap. She inhales through her nose. Thompson frowns and starts again.

     "She had a military cut. Did that...bother you?"

     Sherlock's eyes snap open and he asks flatly, "You are asking me whether Joan's  _hair..._ bothered me?"

     Joan can't help the snort that escapes her. She bows her head and slaps a hand over her mouth. Thompson gives her an assessing look.

     "Men  _and_ women generally have a problem accepting short haircuts on women since it seems less  _feminine_ to them. Do you prefer it this way, now that it's longer?" Joan doesn't fail to notice the distaste in her voice. She wonders if Thompson had experienced the company of a controlling man. Her own hair was the no-nonsense kind of short.

     "I have no opinion, whatsoever, on the length or state of my flatmate's hair." Sherlock's eyes are slits now. Joan tries hard to mask her amusement in a huff.

     "I was curious because you mentioned how it was different from its previous style."

     "Merely an observation, counsellor," he grinds out the last word. Joan squirms.

     "Ah. But important enough to take note of?"

     Joan looks at her sharply at the same time that Sherlock does. She is impressed.

     "You could have simply told us about her current hairstyle instead of specifying an older one."

     "I admit that I have been curious about its texture and strength and whether the two vary with length." Sherlock's shoulder twitches. Joan realizes belatedly that it was meant to be a shrug.

     "Wait a minute. So, you are just waiting to get your hands in my hair to pluck it out!"

     Sherlock looked away for a second before glaring at her.

     Oh my God.

     "See?! _This_ is why I don't let him near me."

     

* * *

 

     It had taken a good many years for Joan to stop caring about the way she looked. Hard work in med school had paved the way for the army and that’s when she had realized how petty it had been of her to be worried about whether she was attractive enough when people were dying gruesome deaths all around her.

     She had come back from the war to find Sherlock and dating was a breeze as compared to her teenage years. The many things she had seen on the battlefield had given the quality of strange abandon to everything she did. The dangerous cases, the string of lovers that—try as she might—she couldn't care about, the immense admiration for the singular constant in her life. She had forgotten all about her insecurities. She had thought she had overcome them. It was no surprise that Sherlock had brought them all flooding back again. Not tall enough, not blonde enough, not thin enough, not pretty enough. She knew that, had she been a man, her face nor her height would have mattered much. It irked her to know that a woman had to be a looker to be considered even, let alone to be  _valued._

     She leans her forehead against the window of the cab they are in, sighing to herself. She feels vaguely sick which might not have anything to do with last night’s takeaway. That made her even more nauseous. How and why did Sherlock Holmes have all the power over her? Why did she let him get to her without even trying? It was hardly fair. Sherlock himself had unconventional, odd looks. And it never bothered him. He was quite vain, if she were to put a word to his obsessive hairdressing. His beauty had grown on her, sneaking into her subconscious unbidden. She glances at him in the reflection and looks away instantly. His eyes are already watching her.

     “Joan.”

     “Mm?” She breathes weakly, putting on a show of approaching sickness.

     There really wasn't any need of theatrics because Sherlock was bound to look straight through it all. Although, there wasn't any way for him to know about her childhood insecurities. Especially with the way she dated a new man almost every other week. That knowledge kept her calm in the face of the trouble brewing deep in the back of her mind.

     “Alright?” Joan frowns and lifts her head to blink owlishly at him.

     “Are _you_ alright?” She huffed, amused. Her question got a disdainful look as he looked down his nose at her.

     “No...I’ll be fine. I think it might be last night’s food. A bit squeamish, that’s all.” She wonders if the sag of his shoulders is just her imagination.

 

* * *

 

      "I sat there and painted a portrait while he provided a profile."

     "Oh, honey," Mrs. Hudson tsked.

     "It's nothing, really. She asked us to describe each other and we both did the way we usually would. Sherlock's right. I _am_ unnecessarily descriptive."

     "You are a romantic, dear. And there's nothing wrong with that."

     "Never said there was," Joan smirked.

     "That's my girl."

 

* * *

 

 _His cheekbones are the first thing I noticed on meeting him. Very distinctive. Aristocratic. Sharp. His hair is quite dark, I think but when it's sunny out, it just changes colour into this..._ beautiful  _lighter shade of brown. I imagine it's soft to touch...like satin? It certainly looks that way. I've also seen hints of red in it when he stands at the window sometimes._

 _His lips are...different! Rather like an archer's bow. They are also the second thing I noticed when we first met. Haha. They were just_ quite  _different._

_His eyes are...quite amazing. It's as if they cannot decide what colour to be. I used to think they were an aquamarine blue...but then they have been green and grey, too._

_They remind me of the ocean._

_He is tall, obviously. Walks as if he owns the very planet--even if he might not know that it goes around the sun--and talks faster than_ anyone _I have ever heard. He is brilliant in his own way and has no sense of boundaries or manners. And he is absolutely mad but--_

 The sound of soft footsteps on the stairs jolts him from his recollections of that morning and he straightens up on the couch just as Joan walks in through the door. A chat with Mrs. Hudson seems to have done her good. He notes the soft smile that graces her lips and the absence of the tightness around her eyes before walking straight to her. He cups her cheeks with his hands, mentally marvelling at the way her head fits perfectly between the length of his palms, and tilts her head this way and that until her eyes catch the light just so, causing him to freeze. _  
_

     "Clear blue."

     "What?" Joan asks faintly. Sherlock supposes that it might not be everyday that she is inspected thusly. 

     "Your eyes. They are blue. Like clear blue water."

     She remains silent, a crease between her eyebrows.

     "I did not want to be wrong about your eye colour. I was simply confirming what I had already observed."

     Joan raises her eyebrows as an indication of her understanding and he withdraws his hands, his skin sparking on contact with the ends of her hair as if in remembrance of his lack of knowledge about it. He will have to examine them on some other opportunity.

     

* * *

 

      Joan had been surprised when he had first tried to get a good look of her eyes, her amusement soon overcoming the initial shock. And if he made sure to gaze into her eyes now and again, making her pause whatever task she was engaged in, then she didn't mind in the slightest.

     When his hands lingered in her hair a few weeks later on the pretext of checking for injury, his fingers pinching and rubbing the strands surreptitiously, it was all she could do not to beam.

 

* * *

 


	2. Your Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added a companion piece to this chapter. Find it if you can!

 

* * *

     

     "How do you introduce each other to strangers?"

     "Friend."

     "Colleague." Joan purses lips.

     "He introduced me to his uni mate as a friend & I corrected him, once on a case. Hasn't called me a friend ever since," Joan shrugs. The stubborn git.

     "Did you apologize?"

     "Of course."

     "Tell us why you corrected him."

     She hesitates for a moment before inhaling deeply and rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I didn't want him to get the wrong idea."

     "Which was?"

     "That Sherlock & I were together, of course." She eyes Sherlock carefully. His expression remains unchanged, unfathomable as ever.

     "Because you...wanted him to ask you out?" Thompson raises her eyebrows. Joan groans softly and buries her face in her hands.

     "No! I blurted out colleague because it felt more _professional_. He was a tosser  & I hardly wanted him to think that I was a tag along in Sherlock's investigations. I play a part, too; 'conductor of light' as he calls me," she finishes with a sharp nod. She doesn't add that she had said so partly because she had been annoyed at Sherlock that morning. It was all so petty.

     "Of course, if I would have known how the conversation was going to turn out, I would have made Wilkes believe that we were [married](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3773581)," she gestures between her & Sherlock, watching his eyebrows flick upwards. Thompson does the same.

     "Why?"

     Joan parts her lips and draws in a breath, tilting her head with her eyes on Sherlock as if to say 'need I explain this, too? Sherlock simply presses his lips together and a gusty sigh escapes her. She can't look him in the eye when she speaks.

     "I didn't like the way he treated Sherlock. Calling his deductions ' _tricks'_ ," she spits the word out with revulsion, remembering the jolt of quickly smothered surprise that had shot through her on seeing that Sherlock's eyes were uncharacteristically downcast instead of the piercing stare that she had expected to see when he corrected Sebastian. Her hands curl spasmodically. She also remembers the way Sherlock had leaned back and turned his head to the side, his eyes lowering to his lap when Wilkes had said that everybody hated him. It had looked as if he were recoiling from a physical blow.

     She raises her eyes to see that both of them are eyeing her hand. She is surprised to see that their eyes are focused on the _right_ one. She concentrates on uncurling it carefully before speaking again.

     "He spoke condescendingly, _laughing_ at Sherlock  & regaling me with stories of how everybody at uni thought he was a freak," her voice rises indignantly on the last word. She swallows. Her fury towards Sebastian Wilkes isn't in embers, as she had thought. It is a volcano.

     "He was ungrateful about everything Sherlock did for him," she scowls. And what made it worse was that Sherlock didn't even put him down the way he always does.

     "How would faking marriage to him help in this case?"

     This time, Joan raises her eyebrows.

      "Wilkes would have known I loved & valued Sherlock enough to get hitched, of course. Would have proved that I was more than a mere friend."

     There is a contemplative silence.

     Joan speaks in a softer voice, addressing Sherlock now, her eyes earnest as they watch him. "I don't know why you had to take the case. He could have died for all we cared."

     Sherlock raises his chin. Joan straightens in her seat expectantly.

     "I was of the understanding that you needed to borrow some money."

     "You did that for _me_?" Her shoulders drop.

     "Helped you, didn't it?" His response is curt. Joan gapes at him in disbelief. She has to clear her throat because it is very heavy all of a sudden.  _It's called guilt._ _  
_

The silence that permeates the air in the room this time is oppressive. It threatens to choke her.

     "How do you introduce each other to people relatively closer to you?"

     Joan makes a note to herself to thank Thompson later.

     "Best friend," she offers promptly.

     "Flatmate."

     Her lips curl into a wince before she can control them, exposing the sharp sting of bitter hurt.

     Was she being clingy? No, of course not. This is what normal people did.

     What she didn't realize was that it was Sherlock's turn to be [shocked speechless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3795469).

 

* * *

 

 

     They're at home when Joan finally musters up the courage to approach Sherlock. Her hand hovers over his laid on the surface of the table before she withdraws it hastily.

     "I'm sorry. I didn't know he was...that he—"

     "That he what, Joan?" Sherlock turns to look at her fully, a challenging glint in his eyes.

     Joan shrugs with one shoulder & observes the way his fingernails are digging into the wood beside the base of the microscope.

     "That he mattered once," she murmurs, finally placing her hand on his as if to physically take away the tension.

     That shuts Sherlock up real good. Joan strokes her fingers over the back of his hand in idle awe, experimenting with the feel of his smooth skin now that she has been given temporary permission.

     "Am I..." Sherlock begins. She raises her eyes to his as her fingers still.

     "Your..." Joan nods encouragingly, eyebrows furrowing in question.

     "Best... _friend_?"

     Joan pauses. Her lips move wordlessly and then part in bewilderment and a touch of fondness. And somewhere within her, guilt raises its head again.

     "'Course. 'Course you are. You're my best friend," she smiles, patting his hand. He smiles back and she has to look away.

     "Sherlock..." On getting a blank look, Joan continues, "I—thank you. I hadn't known that you took his case...for me."

     He gives her a steady, sidelong glance. Her breath stutters a bit. She looks at their hands lying together on the table.

     "Don't flatter yourself. It was a seven, at least."

     Joan looks up to a smirk and lets out a startled laugh, giving him a mock punch on the arm with an amused smile of her own.

     "Just—if I'm ever being a prat to you, do point it out."

     "With _out_ fail," he enunciates sincerely. She grins again and turns away.

     She gulps on turning her back to him, left hand flying to her abdomen in a belated reaction to the languid curl of his lips. He had never looked at her so before. So—

      _Tenderly?_

     Joan stares at his back, wishing he hadn't left her alone.

 

* * *

 


	3. Only You

 

* * *

 

     "On the cheeks then, since you aren't a couple."

     "I have no reason whatsoever to kiss her."

     "You kiss Mrs. Hudson all the time," Joan points out. 

     "And you aren't her."

     "Who's she?"

     "Landlady."

     "Not our housekeeper," Sherlock adds automatically, as if by rote. A small smile graces her lips despite herself.

     Thompson looks from one to the other mutely. Then she sighs and Joan wonders if the exasperation emanating their counsellor is just her imagination. Perhaps she is projecting.

     "You must have established  _some_ sort of method to express affection towards each other!" She says finally, hands raised to convey—yes—exasperation. Joan was pretty sure that counsellors weren't allowed to judge their clients.

     On meeting nothing but bewildered silence, Thompson shakes her head and begins again, "Two people living together, in such proximity, and for  _so_ long soon follow a pattern of conveying gratitude, affection— _love_."

     The look on Sherlock's face makes Joan want to snort again but she controls herself. He looks so _lost_!

 _"_ The both of you, on the other hand, don't so much as _thank_ each other."

     Joan reads mutual displeasure in the tightness of Sherlock's lips. Of  _course_ they thanked each other. They just had unconventional ways of doing so. Like...murdering someone for each other.

     Thompson seems to have sensed the tension in the air because she sighs and mutters a quick 'alright' before pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes in thought.

     Her demeanour when she finally raises and drops her shoulders in a movement that is nowhere near to a shrug, suggests that she has filed this away for further examination. Joan doesn't like to think what she may have in mind.

     "Have you at least _stated_ your affection for each other? If not through gestures, some people prefer speaking about it."

     Sherlock and Joan squirm simultaneously. Thompson's face smoothes over. 

     "Sherlock," she says and his eyes snap over to her from where they were engrossed in studying the flooring.

     "Tell me something..." she begins slowly.

     "Hmm?"

     "...you like about your friend," she gestures in Joan's direction.

     "What?" She asks, snapping her neck to glare at their "counsellor". After Sherlock, even Joan's begun to have doubts about her credentials.

     Both of them stare at Joan this time. She rubs her forehead.

     "Look, compliments...aren't his thing," she finally mumbles.

     Thompson ignores her comment as if it had never been spoken.

     "I am merely asking you to list the things you appreciate about her," she answers Sherlock's stare.

     Joan sighs. She is exhausted already. 

     "She is quite resourceful."

     Joan is surprised that he spoke at all. She inhales to voice a 'there you go, see?' but he beats her to it.

     "Surprisingly and yet _unfailingly loyal_."

     Thompson seems to be having the time of her life with that smirk unfurling over her face which is obviously directed at Joan. She isn't bothered in the least.

     "She is trustworthy and dependable, even thought I detest both  _trusting and depending,"_ he spits out and keeps going.

     "Most importantly, she doesn't seem to mind all my...unpleasant aspects. She hasn't minded...ever," he frowns to himself, looking at the floor with his lips parted in bewilderment.

     "I find that...quite fortunate," he clears his throat.

     "Her military as well as medical skills are the required elements needed to compliment my Work as it is of an extremely dangerous nature. Her soothing voice and pleasant facial features are rather useful in extracting critical information from particularly dense and sentimental victims and witnesses. As is her nature in general. People trust her _blindly_. They also find it easier to hear me out if she is smiling at them. She is my back-up _and_ my bodyguard at times. She is also my doctor and the person I look to when I have missed a social.. _thing._

 _"_ Her contribution to my Work is quite significant."

    _You complete him._

     "So...would you call her irreplaceable?"

     It isn't what he says as much as it is the muted vehemence in his tone that seems to bring her back to life.

      _"Indispensable."_

 

     She hears Thompson murmur 'your turn' too softly, as if she were afraid to break whatever it is that hangs delicately between them.

     Joan parts her lips in protest, to say that she couldn't, she wouldn't, for what if she goes too far? But her eyes are drawn back to Sherlock whose head is bowed but eyes are already looking at her through lashes as if not looking directly would keep her from noticing.

     That look is beseeching.

     It is tentative and uncertain.

     He looks frail the next moment. Frail and resigned, as his eyes slowly lower to the floor. 

     Because she failed him. Nobody has ever done this for him before and she failed him.

     Just like all the others.

     She despises herself for letting his faith in her falter and fall for even a moment. But she speaks and hopes. Hopes that she makes up to him with the affection in her eyes and the love in the curve of her lips.

     She doesn't stop talking until the session ends.

 

* * *

 


	4. Skies Grew Darker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to WitchRavenFox who wanted more! Haha!

* * *

 

     Joan sighs with something like contentment sitting snugly in her stomach for the third time that night. It's not quite a smile that graces her lips. But it's near enough because her face isn't the stoic mask that it had been ever since— _  
_

     She stops that train of thought before questions and exclamations barge into her already overwhelmed mind. She inhales deeply and finds another long sigh escape her slowly, steadily.

     Sherlock's face earlier in the day had been...quite lost. She didn't know what else to call that look. He had seemed so  _utterly lost_ at everything she had to say about him. If his stillness was anything to go by, he hadn't been able to fully comprehend her words. Because he had been shocked. Only Sherlock The Genius could be that thick. She complimented him left and right. Was it really such a surprise to hear her elaborate on her one-word exclamations?

     The repetition of _his_ words in her mind, on the other hand, had made her thoughtful, lax.

     She shifts and rolls onto her side, placing her head on folded palms. She holds her breath for a moment. It is deathly quiet downstairs.

     Perhaps Sherlock is thinking of today's session, too.

     The thought pulls on another string: a thread connecting beads of memories and her mind flashes back to the day when Mycroft had decided to step in. She had despised her for it. She had wanted to rage and push and punch but she hadn't had the energy or the motivation. Thinking about it now, perhaps it had been Joan's resignation to her condition that had made Mycroft intervene.

      _"I can't live with either of them but I'm making do. I might as well stay with you if it's about maintaining my sanity."_

     The look Mycroft had given her at this statement had made her reconsider it instantly. Perhaps she had already gone 'round the bend.

      _"We are not a couple to be_ counselled,  _Mycroft._ _We are friends."_

      _"You two are_ hardly _just friends."_

 _"Do I have a_ choice,  _Mycroft?"_ It hadn't even been a question.

     Her jaw was set.

    _"I will not watch my brother and his only_ friend _in the world bring each other down."_

     Joan's jaw locks in the present as her mind loops the accusation. As if  _she had—  
_

She inhales deeply and lets her eyes fall shut, letting calmness engulf her. She is a walking Pandora's box these days. She  _has been_ ever since—

     She exhales sharply, her eyes snapping open.

     " _I hadn't expected you to be so...cooperative."_

_"Well. I have nothing to lose."_

     The ride in her black, conspicuous car had been a storm brewing and building up.

     So that was the day she had returned to 221B, her mind resigned but her body taut in response to the stress hormone running within her. She had been surprised to see Sherlock respond to her entrance by lurching to his feet as soon as he laid eyes on her and she tried to let the tension flow out of her bones. It hadn't taken any effort at all, for it finally seemed like a weight had been lifted off her chest, as if someone had popped her skin and let all the poison flow out.

     She had sighed back then, too, her eyes meeting Sherlock's aquamarine pair after weeks of simply imagining them.

     The concern in them had struck her like a physical blow and she had stepped aside unsteadily to let Mycroft enter after her, eyes flicking to the floor.

     Mycroft's single decision has led to something akin to peace unfurling inside her chest and she feels relieved that she at least attempted at salvaging what little was left between them. She knew that it was going to take far too long to collect the scattered shards, let alone piece them back together in a weak imitation of an endeavour.

     She knew what was coming would maul her all over again. She knew it was going to drag her nightmares out in the open for Sherlock to prey upon, her private thoughts laid bare for him to see.

 _But for once in all this time,_ she couldn't help but  _hope desperately._

She lifts her head and withdraws her palm from under it, reaching out to the bedside table for her phone. She types out one word and hits send.

To:

Mycroft 

_Perhaps._

_00:53_

    

* * *

 

 


	5. And I Could Go On and On

* * *

 

     "Today, we will..." Thompson pauses to refer to her notepad and looks up. "...discuss your issues."

     Joan can't stop the weak, mirthless huff that escapes her in the quiet of the room. She watches Sherlock purse his lips from across her.

     "Yes, Joan?"

     She stays quiet, letting her eyes drop as she shakes her head.

     "You do know that speaking up is the point of the exercise? Go on," she says.

     "Just..." Joan sighs through her nose. "Why?"

     Thompson simply gives her half a smile. "It's all part of the process."

     She turns to Sherlock. "Do you have any problems you'd like to talk about?"

     Nobody suggests that they had noticed the omitted ' _with Joan'._

He simply looks at Thompson and then back at Joan, holding her gaze with his head still turned towards the former.

     "No, I don't."

     Even when she knew he had no reason to have a problem with her, his answer upset her. Her lips stretch into a frail smile. She should have no reason to feel guilty about her problems.

     Joan watches as their counsellor's chin lifts and eyebrows rise, lips parting softly in understanding. Joan bristles. Thompson looks toward her this time, the same question asked in the tilt of her head.

     "Yes.  _I_ am the problem. The one with all the problems," she grits out. "I am the reason Mycroft went to such lengths to get you for us. I'll save you the trouble of concluding that."

     Sherlock frowns.

     Thompson levels her with a steady look. Joan shakes her head as her eyes fall shut.

     "Is that a no, Joan?"

     The rattle of Joan's unsteady inhale in audible in the silent air and she pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to control the pricking of her eyes. She squeezes them shut. Blinks once, twice. Looks out the window with yearning and then back at her lap. She swallows tightly.

     "I—" A sharp exhale escapes her.

     She glances at Sherlock who is staring intently at her. Her lips curl in a wince against the stinging pain in her chest. She tears her eyes away from his and looks at Thompson.

     "I can't trust him." Her statement ends sharply, pitch rising by the last word.

     She notices the affront in the widening of his eyes. Perhaps she is projecting the betrayal in the pinch of his lips.

     "Tell me why." Joan is thankful to Thompson for her pretence that it's just the both of them in the room. She goes along with it as if she were humouring a child. She senses the desperation to confide and agrees. Joan is grateful. She doesn't look at Sherlock.

     "He—" but she can't pretend and she snaps her eyes to glare an accusation at him. "Who _knows_?"

     Sherlock's brow knits and her jaw locks. He seems to have forgotten so easily.

     "You were already airborne when Mycroft cleared my  _misunderstanding."_

_Six months, my sister estimates. She is never wrong._

_And then what?_

_Who knows?_

Sherlock's next words flash unbidden in her mind and she has the urge to grieve and laugh at the same time.

     His lips part in remembrance.

     "You wouldn't have let me go," he shrugs with a shoulder.

     She lets out a weak, incredulous laugh. But her lips are set in their grim line within seconds.

     "He thinks I can't take care of myself," she huffs incredulously, addressing Thompson with her eyes still on Sherlock's intense pair.

     "In my case...you never could handle it," he utters softly, his voice a quiet rumble and her mouth twists in bitter acceptance.

     "You—"  _but he cared so much_ "You didn't think that perhaps...telling me the truth would have been better?"

     "It would have only made things worse."  _For you. It was all for you._

     "So you were going to leave me just like that?" She leans forward in her seat. "Without any further explanation? A lie—a handshakeas our last interaction." _  
_

     His eyes soften impossibly.

     "You can't bear being indebted to people, can you?" She stabs and his lips part, nostrils flaring. They press together again as he looks away resolutely.

     "If you think what I did was mere... _repayment_ _—"_

"That's exactly what I think."

     "Then you couldn't be more wrong." His eyes flick to hers, his voice impossibly quiet. _  
_

     She closes her eyes. "Can we talk about something else. Please?" She asks, rubbing her forehead. She doesn't know how to get rid of the ache in her chest.

     "You aren't—"

     "Just _PLEASE_ ," she finally snaps.  _  
_

     "...fine. Tell us about your other problems? Anything that comes to mind."

     Joan's lips lift in a weak imitation of a smile. She takes a deep breath. "Body parts in the fridge, violin at 2 AM—"

     "You don't—" Sherlock swallows the rest of his statement but they all hear it anyway.

    _You don't live with me anymore._

 

* * *

 


	6. You Just Run

* * *

 

     "What if I had a terminal illness and failed to mention it?" Joan asks the moment they walked into the flat, her back to him as he shuts the door softly behind her. She is tempted to turn around and fix him with a glare when he keeps quiet. But he steps beside her several moments later, pulling off his gloves as he speaks.

     "That would be different," he says quietly. Quieter than Joan expected, his voice a mere murmur. He gives her a sidelong glance. The room is bathed in muted afternoon sunlight. He looks aglow, silhouetted by the curtained window, sharp cheekbones softened and eyes glimmering. She can't bear to look at him.

     "No it wouldn't!" She mutters sharply, looking away as her fists clench of their own accord.

     "Yes, it would," he says under his breath as he walks further and places his gloves on the mantle. As if to invalidate her words.

     "No, it _wouldn't_!" She strides to him and jerks him back by the shoulder to face her. "Because what you did almost got me killed, too!" She heaves at his startled face.

     "You have left me four times now, Sherlock. How can I trust a _single_ word you say?!" She grits out.

     "Four?" He asks, dazedly, fingers pausing on the scarf that curled around his neck.

     "Hah. Of course you wouldn't know," she growls, releasing him and turning away. "The pill, your _death_. Then—Mark," she flicks a finger out of her fist with every instance. "And then you _knew_ you were going to your death. Why didn't you say anything?!"

     "How does it matter? It was punishment for murder. I couldn't have changed it and neither could _you_!" He snarls, whipping the blue cloth off his neck and tossing it aside carelessly.

     "Then why did you do it?" She turns around to look at him. "What came over you to _shoot_ a man _dead_ in front of the very government?"

     "What would you have had me do then? Stay quiet? It was his Mind Palace, Joan! He was never going to stop."

     "We would have found another way. _Anything_ else," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

     "Like _what_?" The derision is clear in his voice as he shrugs out of his coat, draping it over the arm of his chair from a distance.

     "Mycroft could have given Mark a different identity. She would have helped," she is trying hard for patience now, mimicking his movements as she pulls at her jacket.

     "She was under Magnussen's thumb! You wouldn't have been safe. Ever," he says, gripping fistfuls of his hair.

     "THEN WE WOULD HAVE DIED," she bellows and throws her jacket to the ground, advancing towards him. He steps backwards, stumbling on flat ground and falls ungracefully into his chair. Her hand reaches out to steady him despite her ire and grasps his arm, her other hand clutching the armrest as she leans in.

     "Joan—" His eyes are wide.

     "No, Sherlock. I don't see why you killed him. Murder is inexcusable," she shakes her head.

     It is because she is glaring so intently at him at such proximity that she sees something fleeting flash in his eyes before they shutter and narrow.

     "But it wasn't when you did it," he draws out, his eyes burning.

     "That man had murdered others and was about to do that to you."  _No. You were about to do it to yourself._ _  
_

"And that's what Magnussen could have done to you."

     Joan falters and gapes. She bows her head, letting the hand holding onto him fall to the armrest instead.

     He cares.

     "Why do you care?" She asks without meeting his eyes.

     "Friends protect each other." She just chuckles mirthlessly at that, raising her eyes to lock with his.

     "Not by risking their own lives." He narrows his eyes, obviously alluding to The Pool.

     "That was different. It was you. You're—" Her teeth bite down on her lip.

     "I'm what?"

     "Important."

     "Have you considered that perhaps, you are important to me, too?" He says after a pregnant pause, his eyes searching her face.

     She hides the catching of her breath in a sharp exhale. That's more than he has ever said to her. Her chest feels hollow, as if it has just been emptied.

     "Not just to me, Sherlock. Your Work."

     "So it's about my utility."

     "I just want you  _alive,_ dammit," she punches the armrest with her trembling fist. "Is that too much to ask? That you don't die on me?"  _Haven't I given you something to live for?_

     "I do not know if anybody told you but there is a limit to how long we can live."

     "This isn't a _joke_ , SHERLOCK!" She grabs the back of his neck using the same hand she futilely punched the chair with, perhaps to emphasize her point, maybe to shake some sense into him. But she feels him go rigid, the muscles underneath her palm tensing. She knows what that reaction is for.

     He is expecting a blow.

_Who did this to you?_

     An exhale rattles out of her mouth and his eyelids flutter as if to close, but he stares on almost defiantly.

     She loosens her grip, stroking the pulsing vein in his neck with her thumb. Pulling him closer, she lets her forehead rest against that of his and peers into his eyes.

     He is much too close. Her eyes fall shut with a deep inhale.

     "We are running around in circles, Sherlock," she says, expecting him to relax into her gentle touch but he just tenses further instead. She doesn't say anything, waiting instead for him to do or say something about the mess of it all.

     "I know," he finally whispers, his voice turning guttural in maintaining the quiet between them. It's hypnotic with their proximity, the mingling of their quiet breaths. "But as they say, what's done is done."

     She opens her eyes at his words, surprised to find them shut. He opens his eyes to find her looking into them.

     Joan knows that neither of them are backing down. Neither at that moment, nor ever. She knows that neither of them are going to apologize either.

      _Thank you for killing for me. It's not that I'm ungrateful—or ignorant—_

_I can't even begin to think why you would turn into a criminal for me._

_I'm sorry—not for demanding that you stay alive—I didn't mean to hurt you._

_You are just SO INFURIATING—why wouldn't you listen to me & _stay? _  
_

She voices none of her thoughts.

     She thinks or rather _hopes_ that Sherlock reads them in her eyes anyways as she leans back with a sigh and withdraws her hand, her fingers skimming and his head raising to keep their eyes locked as she straightens.

     The silent conversation isn't as much of a conversation as it is a staring contest between them and she wins when Sherlock's eyes snap to the door when someone walks in.

     Joan turns to pick up her coat, puts it on and walks toward to the door of their flat, all the while ignoring Mrs. Hudson's concerned words about shouting and noise.

     She walks out into the street, not feeling the ghost touch of a familiar gaze for the first time.

 

* * *


	7. Permanent Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a companion piece to this chapter! I was working on the thirteenth chapter when I realized that I needed to go back in time and establish a conversation between Joan and Thompson before I continued with it.

* * *

 

     "Desires."

     Joan and Sherlock who have been eyeing the door to Thompson's office with ill-disguised longing snap their heads to look at her.

     Thompson purses her lips as if to control the twitching of her mouth and elaborates.

     "The last time we met we talked about your issues—" She begins as she peers at her notepad.

     Nobody notices the way both Joan's and Sherlock's nostrils flare.

     "And now we shall talk about your wishes. What you want from each other," she murmurs, gesturing between them.

     The sofa they are sitting on seems far too small and they squirm on their respective edges.

     "Who would like to go first?" She asks pleasantly, a smile curving her lips which soon fades into a frown when neither of them twitch a finger.

     "Sherlock."

     He will never admit that the stern edge of her voice reminded him of his mother, but he looks up, a moue ready to grace his lips.

     "What did you do?"

     His lips part in indignation, a deep inhale on its way to produce a stream of sharp words before she raises her hand to silence him in advance.

     His brow knits when she simply flicks her eyebrows in Joan's direction and he turns to look at her.

     Her head is bowed, eyes unseeing and a crestfallen expression marring her pleasant features.

     His throat bobs with a swallow and his protests die with it.

     "We had an argument," he resolutely ignores the urge to glance Joan's way when she raises her head to give him a surprised sidelong glance. "I—I may have spurred her on." His lips jut out when he sees her turn towards him completely out of the corner of his eye, gaping insubtly.

     "What was it about?" Thompson raises her eyebrows.

     "Our issues," he mutters bitterly and focuses on the indecipherable writing on her notepad instead of her face.

     "Joan, you must have asked something of him?"

     She tilts her head away instantly, lips moving soundlessly before she throws him a glare.

     "All I have ever asked of him is to be safe," she mumbles.

     Sherlock does a mental double take, more because of the surprise caused by his surprise at her statement. Yes, in the sense of the sentence, 'not dying' and 'being safe' meant the same thing but when she puts it like that, her soft voice edging on concerned protectiveness, something seems to shift within him. He looks at the rug with some incredulity before Thompson interrupts the chaotic path his usually well-organized thoughts have taken.

     "And what was _your_ response to that?"

     "Well, I can hardly protect her without risking myself!"

     The indignant words are out before he realizes what he has uttered, hanging conspicuously between them. He really hadn't meant to state it so bluntly. He withdraws his hands—they had been raised in protest (he really is losing control of himself today)—and attempts to fold in on himself.

     "...and Joan, you have a problem with that because?"

     "I just can't take it all over again." Joan holds her head in her hands, shoulders hunched and voice unmistakably pained.

     Thompson meets his eyes and even though there is no judgement in them, he looks away, ashamed and guilty. He detests the guilt. He doesn't regret it.

      _You didn't see the emotional damage coming._

The conversation goes back and forth, filled with prolonged silences and cleared throats. They really are running in circles. Sherlock knows within the first twenty minutes that this session is going to be in no way productive.

     "How did it end then?" Thompson asks that single question which he learns to regret soon in the coming days.

     "How did what end?" Sherlock asks, confused and infuriated by Joan's self-imposed silence.

     "Your argument. It had to end with a compromise, of course. Otherwise you would have...pulled each others' hair out by now," she laughs weakly, her eyes flicking from one to the other. Her expression seems to border on thunderous when she asks quietly, "Joan, what did you do?"

     "I walked out," Joan raises her chin and Sherlock frowns at her, wondering what it is that she is being [defensive ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4007203)about.

     "And that is what you always do...is it?" Walking out, leaving the conv—the argument nowhere?" Thompson asks, leaning toward them slightly. Sherlock leans back.

     Joan just shrugs, still meeting their counsellor's gaze head on. Sherlock is still confused. Thompson squares her shoulders and Sherlock's mind winces.

     "That's it. New rule. Neither of you leaves the house for anything other than buying utilities or other important work—" She is promptly cut off by twin gasps. "—and  _especially_ not in the middle of an argument."

     "Are you in your right mind?! He would go mad without a case!" Joan grabs onto the only excuse in sight.

     "Classifies under important work," Thompson smirks. They gape soundlessly at each other, eyes wide and pleading.

     "That's hardly standard procedure for counselling a pair," Sherlock narrows his eyes threateningly at her but she only sinks into her seat further, smiling serenely at her notepad before looking at the both of them through her lashes. "What can I say? You two are an odd case and I have been given  _complete_ freedom by your sister."

     Sherlock's mind flails at the image of the future.

     "How do you know we would even follow your ridiculous  _rule?"_ Sherlock spits, raising his chin and looking down at her with all the disdain he can muster. She remains unfazed.

     "You will if you want this to work," she warns, her eyebrows rising meaningfully as she directs her grim gaze to Sherlock. His jaw locks and he falls silent, ignoring the look of betrayal that Joan shoots him.

     He just waits for her to declare the session's end when she asks him the question he has been waiting for.

     "And you, Sherlock? What do you want from Joan?"

     He thinks it through, the words on his tongue heavy yet eager to escape.

     "I want her to move to 221B permanently." He avoids her no doubt shocked look, biting the inside of his cheek as he watches his fingers wring and twist in his lap.

     He wants to look up and analyze the silence but is spared from meeting Joan's eyes when Thompson leans back in her seat (is it satisfaction?) and nods once, clearly suggesting the end of discussion. He springs out of his seat and exits the room before either of them have a chance to stop him.

     He is waiting right outside the door when he hears it.

     "I am telling you. Stop it. Stop picking at scabs."

      _Would you do that—just for me?_

      _Just stop it. Stop this._

     "Stop covering them up."

     He realizes it then.

     He has left a permanent mark. And he is sorry.

 

* * *

 


	8. These Hands

* * *

 

     "Sherlock! Joan! Are you together now?"

     "What about Morstan, Joan?!"

     "Why do you need counselling?"

     "Are you secretly married?"

     "Have you been married since before his fall?"

     Flashing lights and screams engulf her the moment they have step around the block, her senses protesting at the bombardment. She throws an arm over her eyes and reaches out with the other, reflexively searching for Sherlock. Panic stings on feeling empty air and the shoving of desperate reporters.

     “Sherlock?” She shouts, lowering her arm as she looks around. She is surprised at the amount of reporters that surround her, and feels another jab of panic when she doesn't see him anywhere over all the flashes of light and the crowd of people that circles her.

     "Ah!" She hisses when another flash comes dangerously close to blinding her and she steps back reflexively, only to stumble on colliding against someone behind her. She turns around to find a woman with a microphone in her hand, her mouth moving furiously, an intense look in her eyes but Joan doesn't hear the words coming. All she sees is painful brightness at the edges of her vision and the reporters that are closing in. And when another bright flash of a camera makes her cry out in pain, she comes to the horrifying realization that these aren't all reporters. No. Most of the people that surround her are paparazzi.

     Her lips part and she tries to inhale but ends up gasping for air, the claustrophobia creeping up on her as they keep coming closer.

      _No._

_Not again._

Her lips part once again but she doesn't hear what comes out of her own mouth, her head spinning and lungs shrinking. It's impossible to breathe and she starts to back away when she sees people gaping and stumbling and falling over each other as someone attempts to come through them. She jumps violently when an arm curls around her waist and begins to drag her. But then she sees that it's Sherlock and she sees the panic mirrored in the lines of his face. He jerks her towards him, his arm tight around her waist as he pulls her flush against his chest and it is at that moment that her brain registers the last syllable of a terrified scream. She isn't surprised to realize that it was her own.

     She clings on to him, her hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket when his hand cradles her head against his chest and she feels him hunch over her as if to shield. It's startlingly helpful, his near-overwhelming presence and sound begins to filter in until it is so loud as if someone abruptly turned the telly on full volume. She squeezes her eyes shut to keep the lights away but the insides of her eyelids burn an agonizing red, making her turn her head so that it is nestled in the warmth of Sherlock's side.

     " _Joan."_

Sherlock's hushed voice is familiar, grounding and she loosens her fists a little, a sign of being alright.

     But then his baritone is guttural and _alien_ as it growls deafeningly at the crowd, making her seize up against him as she holds her breath in, willing herself not to panic.

_"OUT OF MY WAY!"_

And then they are moving through the masses, his arms tightening impossibly around her when she tries to assist in their motion which is only hindered because of her. She can feel him shouldering people out of their way, the wild beat of his heart echoing within her, _along with hers._

Peace encompasses them like a welcoming host the moment they are up the stairs, into the lobby and through the glass doors, but he hasn't let her go yet and she isn't willing to step away from the safe cocoon of his arms.

     So they stay still like that until she hears his heartbeat slow down, until his fingers stop threading through her hair and he stops murmuring her name under his breath.

     Without a word, she pulls away and steps back, rubbing her hands over her face. She is shaken and grateful for the wooden doors of the lobby, beyond the glass ones, that keep those vultures at bay. Her head snaps up at the sound of retreating footsteps, sharp and cutting in the silence and she calls after him.

     "Sherlock! Don't!"

     But his steps don't even falter when he walks straight over to the front desk, slamming his palms against the polished wood as he leans over it threateningly. Nathan, Thompson's assistant, jumps with the whole of his body and gasps, his chair crashing into the wall behind him. Joan understands Nathan's fear.

     "Is  _this_ the kind of  _confidentiality_ and  _privacy_ you offer to your  _clients?"_

      _CAN'T YOU_ SEE _WHAT'S GOING ON?!_

     Sherlock's features are contorted with rage as they were when he had believed that Moriarty had convinced her that Sherlock was a fraud. _  
_

      _No don't—_ _  
_

"Sherlock Holmes."

     Three pairs of eyes snap to look towards the open door of the main office. Thompson is staring grimly at Sherlock, her arms crossed as she stands just inside the door and tilts her head to ask them in.

     "I prefer that you don't harass my employee."

     Sherlock storms straight past her and Joan follows inside weakly, shaking her head at Thompson's questioning glance.

     "There is a mob of reporters and photographers outside who want to know if we have been married from the start," he snarls and walks over to the French windows, yanking the curtains close before turning to glare at Thompson.

     " _Someone_ has informed them about our  _counselling_ sessions. I was just checking to see if your assistant was _responsible._ "

 

* * *

 

     "Tell me about your nightmare," Thompson says when Joan has finally calmed Sherlock enough for him to sit still on the sofa.

     Joan licks her lips as she shakes her head with a humourless grin and raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. He looks affronted.

     Thompson's trying sigh gets her attention. "He didn't tell me, Joan. Your eyes gave you away. And with your history, there is only one conclusion. It wasn't a difficult leap."

     "Careful now," Joan begins. "You are beginning to sound like him and God knows we don't need two Sherlocks."

     Her comment earns her a press of lips and a derisive snort. She fights the urge to bolt when the muscles in her calves bunch, remembering the Don't Run rule, as she calls it now. It has been so long in the same room with the same faces that she has taken to labelling situations and movements and looks and anything to keep her from running out the door, screaming.

     Thompson seems to have read her mind because she places her notepad and pen on the round table to her side and leans forward, hands clasped and elbows balanced on knees. This is her Persuasion Pose, as Joan likes to call it. Sherlock, on the other hand, is sitting still with his fingers intertwined and posture straight. They tell her a lot about how he is feeling.

     "Joan, talking about it will be cathartic. It will also give Sherlock an insight into your mind."

     "Doesn't he already have enough of that?" She mutters and runs a hand over her face, her resolve strengthening with every second. She can't tell him about her nightmares. She can't and she  _won't._ _  
_

Thompson sighs and and rubs her forehead. Joan likes to think that she is a challenge to her. That both of them are. She wants to be difficult _—_ as much as possible. It feels like redemption.

     Redemption for what...she doesn't know. Everything is just that vague these days.

     No.

     It had always been that vague.

     Sherlock was the one who had brought definition to her life. Then he had taken it away and life turned murky even after he came back. It has been like looking through foggy glasses ever since. And everyone points out that she couldn't possibly be able to see through them; they offer to clean them and some even attempt wiping at them from the outside. She keeps losing them, now and again.

     

* * *

 

     "How many?" She asks, watching golden-brown liquid swirl within the crystal glass. 

     "Hmm?" Sherlock asks and she inhales deeply, slowly, leaning her head back and closing her eyes when a cool breeze blows in their direction. London is lit, going on as ever, and Joan is sitting in the balcony of one of the many rooms of Mycroft's grandiose  _house._ The play of light and shadows on the alcohol is hypnotizing, and she twists and turns the glass, entranced.

     "How many did you kill?"  _For me?_

     Joan is aware of the slur in her voice. She bites her lip and picks up the bottle holding the stuff that kills and hands it over to Sherlock. He takes it mutely, his slender fingers running over the neck of the fragile crystal bottle. She remembers the same hand sheltering her, holding her head against his chest when the vultures got too close. 

They had only seen a black car pulling in at the curb after another useless session when Sherlock's palm had come to rest between her shoulder blades, making her stiffen. She had looked up at him to see grim determination.

      _Surveillance says the reporters have set up camp outside 221 B._ _  
_

     Things have been different ever since Mycroft decided to send them to therapy. Sherlock has been keeping to himself and Mycroft's interference has been  _welcome._ Joan doesn't understand their sudden, flawless cooperation. It disturbs her.

     So it comes as a surprise when Sherlock answers her question.

     "Lost count."

     The only thing she can focus on is the soft utterance of the last 't' as it slithers in the thickening air between them, before her hand grabs his arm, her eyes stinging in the cool air as they widen and prick. He looks at their hands and then up, a question in the faint line between his brows. She places her glass on the cool marble of the balcony before opening her palm to him. His head tilts in mild confusion but he complies, placing the bottle at his feet and offering his other hand to her.

     He hasn't just killed for her. He has sacrificed himself _—_ not once, but  _twice _—__ to protect her. 

     Does he have a list of things to accomplish when in a friendship? She wonders. Her fingers ghosting over the lines on his palms.

     She also wonders if being grateful that he killed for her is wrong. But she is. A thousand times over.

     What could she possibly say, what could she possibly  _do_ to thank him?

     She  _feels_ and he  _cares_ too much. Far too much.

     The overwhelming nature of the feelings inside her _—_ or perhaps it's the alcohol coursing through her _—_ causes her to raise her hand to cup his jaw, her brimming eyes searching his face.

     Her lips part with a shaky inhale and she leans in as he eyes her with hooded orbs.

     A jumping pulse underneath her fingertips belies the calmness he exudes and they gaze at each other, time and matter as well simply frozen around them.

     But the Clock Tower chimes and yet they hold their breath and when everything turns silent again, she stands up.

     The spell is broken but the magic remains.

     And she has promises to make.

 

* * *

 


	9. Wildest Dreams

* * *

 

     Joan ends up typing out a private blog post addressed to Thompson because talking about the subject of her nightmares  _to_ the  _subject_ of her nightmares is a bit too much even for her. And so, Sherlock gets an insight into her subconscious.

 

 

      _I am the one who kills him._

_It isn't Mark or Moriarty or even a faceless sniper. It's me._

_I am the one who puts a bullet through his brain and sometimes, even through his heart._

_And let's face it. It was me who_

_In some of them, I am standing on the same rooftop, trying to talk him down. But he doesn't listen to me. Not in any of them. And I know that sometimes, recurring dreams can be manipulated, can be changed but this one stays the same._

_And the funny thing is, sometimes I_   _am the one shoving him off Barts_

_There isn't any blood in any of the dreams. He is just...still. He doesn't breathe and doesn't blink but his eyes_

_those eyes are wide open and I can't look away from them._

_He looks alright but like a dead body. I know, I have seen lots of those._

_Most of the time I wake up silently but there are times when_

_I don't know what to do about it. I know, even after I wake up that in the present, he is alive and well. But it's like my mind can't have it_

_I want to make it stop but it's obviously not in my hands_

_Make of that what you will._

 

 

     Sherlock leans back and looks away. His eyes fall to the open balcony doors and then Joan's still form on the bed.

     They were offered a room each, side-by-side, but Sherlock declined. It would have been pointless to be counselled and not follow the one rule that had been established. If Joan had her way, she would stay within the walls of her room just to avoid Sherlock and he couldn't have that. He decided to simply leave in the night to sleep in a different bed or to peruse the library while Joan got her rest.

He shuts the lid of the laptop and just sits.

     He doesn't know how knowing about Joan's nightmares is helpful.

     Yes, he can analyze the words, the spaces between them and the meaning behind them. He can read into the the lack of punctuation in some places and the incomplete sentences left off. He knows she didn't spend time editing or thinking about her words.

     It was succinct, her post.

     He knows that this is the result of inebriation—because of alcohol or emotions, he cannot differentiate.

     He looks to the balcony again and remembers the gentle curve of her fingers against his skin. He wonders what she had been thinking about.

     He realizes that this is some sort of apology—perhaps an unconventional thank you?

     Whatever he called it, he knew that it was an effort on her part.

     He leaves the room to roam alone.

 

* * *

 

     Joan storms into the bathroom, wrenches Sherlock's arms towards her & runs her hands over them, fingers pinching and pulling for the telltale scars. He feels her shiver and then rub his wrists.

     "I—I thought—"

     "That I was using," he provides, quietly. "You had another nightmare. Something different this time or you wouldn't have come checking up on me."

      The matter-of-fact words are out before he can remind himself of her condition. Joan doesn't look up. Firm fingers track his pulse as she speaks in hushed tones.

     "I shouldn't have called you a machine. I should have looked through the lie and locked you in the lab. I should have told you that you were my best friend and what it would do to me if you left. I should have told you—when we were running—that no matter what the world said, I'd always believe in you. I should have told you that you are the best man I've ever known instead of standing by the window and calling you a dick." Joan pauses to heave a shuddering breath.

     "That was all I kept thinking of when you were up on the edge. I believed you would listen to me, you know. I _knew_ you would. Because I'm your exception and you _listen to me_. But you stepped off." Her fingertips are trembling over his skin. He wants to grasp them and hold on. "All I could think of for the last two years was—how alone you must have felt—so much that it drove you to _kill_ yourself," her voice wavers and pitches lower.

     "I couldn't imagine how—painful it must have been. Was it equal to my grief?" She looks up at him, eyes earnest and haunted. "I thought of so many things I could have done differently that day. Just one thing to keep you away from Barts. Anything."

     "You shouldn't have blamed yourself," he murmurs, not an attempt at placating but an order. He knows the alcohol isn't out of her system yet. She is fragile and shaken and running on reserve energy. She is a grenade.

     "I was your only friend, Sherlock. I should have known your problems. Should have seen through your charade. Should have comforted you but I turned on you instead." Joan raises her hand to his cheek. He blinks rapidly. He is still not used to her touch. "And you made me watch," Joan breathes.

     "Why...? Fodder for my dreams," she smiles mirthlessly. She reaches out to cradle his head against her chest, one hand cupping the nape of his neck with the other on his curls. He complies mutely, leaning down on recognizing her need for contact. He wouldn't admit it to himself but the tender way in which she holds him—that she holds him at all—immobilises him with an emotion he cannot define.

      _Is this how she felt when he held her?_

     Their position is awkward and uncomfortable, so he kneels on the cool tiles carefully, pulling her down with his hands on her hips.

     She leans down and his breath catches when he feels her lips brush the crown of his head.

     Her hand comes to cling delicately onto the lapel of his suit jacket. Her breathing is shallow, ragged.

     "Joan, I..." he trails off, embarrassed on hearing his voice tremble. He is at a loss for words. There is nothing he can say and he knows that. But it is imperative to reassure her somehow. 

     He shifts his head to look at her through his lashes, covering her hand over his heart with his own.

     He has asked for her forgiveness once before, apologized innumerable times and he has been forgiven then. But somehow...he knows that it isn't about apologies or gratitude anymore. It is about survival between them now.

     Her face clears with understanding and the hand on his chest travels upward, over his neck and on his cheek. He doesn't let go of it.

     He watches, frozen and quiet under her touch, as her gaze slowly skims over over his neck, chin and lingers on his lips, her thumb rubbing gently over his cheek.

     Her eyes finally lock with his and he can _feel_ her thoughts stand still as she finally makes a decision.

     His sharp inhale seems to echo in the long bathroom when her lips press against his forehead, soft and warm. He opens eyes that he hadn't known had closed and blinks up at her.

     The slight curve of her lips causes relief to flood through his veins.

      _At least not tonight._

And as he lets her guide him back to the bed by his hand, he thinks that counselling is underrated.

     And when she closes her eyes beside him, her breathing slow and languid, and lashes fanning full cheeks, he can't help but wonder...

      _How much longer before you go back to him again?_

 

* * *

 

     Come late morning, _Anthea_ finds them resting still, an atmosphere of peace all around.

     Her lips twitch in a secretive smile as she closes the door to their room behind her and fires off a text.

 

 To:

MH

_Shall I thank Ms AT?_

_10:48 AM_

 

 

From:

MH

_You know how._

_10:49 AM_

 

      _Anthea_ smirks and sets off down the hall.

     She has places to be.

 

* * *

 


	10. Losing Grip

* * *

 

     He shifts and a shuddering sigh escapes her.

     She wasn't surprised the night before when he didn't say a word of protest against her wish. She had silently grasped his hand and tugged and he had followed without a sound. The only other time they had slept in the same bed had been during the Hounds case.

     Sherlock had sneaked into their room in the middle of the night and slipped under the sheets quietly, only to look straight into her open eyes. He had waited for her to begin an argument but she had been too angry, angry _and_ hurt to even bother speaking to him. She had simply turned over on her side and fallen asleep.

      _Listen, what I said before, Joan, I meant it._

_I don't have friends. I've just got one._

     The moment she woke up and laid eyes on his resting form, her thoughts blanked out and took a turn for the worse.

     He might not have lived to this day at all if Mark hadn't missed on purpose.

     She swallows and looks away.

     "Morning," his voice rumbles and her eyes snap to his closed ones. She stays silent, her fingers picking at the sheet.

     "What?" He asks, his eyes open and searching. Then his eyebrows rise and fall with understanding.

     "There was nothing you could have done," he murmurs, lips pressed together. "Stop ruminating on it."

     Breath huffs out of her lips as she shakes her head. She lets her eyes wander, noticing that he slept in his suit. That was a first.

     "Is there even a point in asking how you know?"

     He shrugs and smiles, eyes heavy lidded yet sharp. She smiles back, letting the tranquility have its moment before her lips frowned again.

     "I can't help but wonder how this might have turned out if I hadn't met Mark." No bullet. No hurt. No Magnussen. No death sentence.

     Sherlock's eyelids lift to stare at her, expression unfathomable as he holds her gaze. "He couldn't have stayed away even if he wanted to."

     Joan's frown deepens, her brows furrowing as she looks at him questioningly.

     Then suddenly, his eyes seem to shutter as he sits up and swings his legs off the bed, muttering something unintelligible before heading toward the door.

     Joan mimics his movements and lurches towards the door before he can get to it and steps in front of it, blocking his way.

     She cranes her neck to lock eyes but he avoids her gaze, reaching for the knob from around her. She slaps his hand away.

     " _What?_ " She snaps. "What is it?"

     "What is what?" He mutters, eyes flickering from side-to-side, still trying to look for a weakness in his obstacle.

     "You may be a great actor, Sherlock, but pretending to be dense is not your forte."

     "Well, it isn't my fault that you are so highly _specific,_ " he spits and reaches out swiftly with his right hand but Joan has been trained to see a fake move from miles away so she jumps to the left to stop his actual attempt and shoves at his shoulders when he promptly recovers and makes another hopeless attempt at getting out.

     " _Stop!_ Just tell me what you aren't."

     His expression hardens and he glares at her before saying, "No."

     Joan blinks at his blunt refusal. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she tries to think of what could possibly make him this secretive.

     "Why don't you want me to know?" She asks, brow furrowing. 

     He turns his back to her, doing his cuffs as he speaks and walks away.

     "Because it is none of your business."

     Joan isn't the one to back down that easy.

     "Isn't it?"

     "No," he stops and turns around to lock eyes with her. "It isn't."

     The stare he gives her is ice cold. It is the kind he uses when he wants to humiliate. He uses it when he wants to be cruel.

     It is a warning, a challenge.  _Stop or else._

     His iciness gives rise to her fire.

     So that was how it was going to be. He wouldn't hesitate to hurt her with choice words if required. If it suits his purpose. If he just wants to control her.

     For a moment, she just wants to let him do it. She wants to see what weapons he has in his arsenal, customized for her. She wants to see if she is capable of bleeding more than she already has. She wants to test how far he is ready to go.

     She grinds her teeth and shuts her eyes, trying to be calm but the moment she hears him walking towards her again, walking towards the door, she snaps.

     " _SHERLOCK YOU WILL TELL ME._ "

     " _I C_ _AN'T_ ," he bellows, not stopping in his advance towards her.

     " _AND WHY NOT?!_ " She demands in a growl.

     " _BECAUSE IT WILL HURT YOU!_ " 

     His expression is livid, eyes wide and teeth bared in a snarl.

     All the breath in her lungs escapes in a soft rush.

      _It had been a bluff._

     He had meant to push her away, knowing it to be an effective method. But he had underestimated her stubbornness. 

     His hands are clutching at his hair now. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say _anything_.

     She is shocked to realize that, whatever it was, he had been trying to keep it away from her for _her sake._

She inhales shakily, suddenly unsure of her aim.

     Joan glances at Sherlock, who seems to want to say something, lips pressed tightly as if to control.

     They just stare at each other, ragged breaths slowing down.

     She wants to help him figure a way out of this mess.

     "Whatever it is...ask yourself if—if I deserve to know."

     His jaw locks and he is looking at her with such intensity, it makes her look away. She can hear the second hand of the room's antique clock ticking away in the silence.  _One, two...fourteen, fifteen...thirty-six, thirty seven—_

     "Mark was the sniper assigned to you."

     All the air in the world doesn't seem enough all of a sudden. She raises her eyes to Sherlock's analyzing ones, lips parted and heart thudding dully.

     She walks to the bed and sits down heavily, trying to wrap her head around the new bit of information. Life-changing information.

     She feels numb all over.

     "You—you mean he did all of that...dating me, dealing with—" _my grief_   "marrying me...just to keep an eye on me?" She asks in a surprisingly steady voice.

     "To keep an eye on your behaviour in case he noticed any...difference," he answers cautiously, shooting her a quick look.

     "He worked for Moriarty?"

     "Moran," he corrects her. "I believe it wasn't just the past assignments that Magnussen had on him. It was the latest one that would have held weight."

     "Moran," she murmurs.

     "Moriarty's right hand man. The only one I didn't end." Joan shivers at the casual manner of his words and the dark look in his eyes. "He is also our suspect for the broadcasted clip."

     "Why couldn't you..."

     "Because I didn't know he existed until we began research of the possible suspects who could have been responsible for making the video public. Moriarty kept him well hidden. His identity was never risked with minor jobs. He was _special_." She hears the repugnance laced on the word.

     "His backup plan."

     Sherlock nodded. "Mark must have been assigned extended duty by nobody but Moran after Moriarty's suicide."

     Joan swallows at the words  _'extended duty'_ and doesn't say anything.

     Sherlock seems to have finally heard them and he looks away, chagrined. And suddenly it hits her. _Her_ _whole marriage—_

     "Oh my God," she breathes, running a trembling hand through her hair, eyes searching the floor wildly, as if it holds all the answers.

     He seems to sense the storm brewing within her because he reaches out with a hand carefully, as if he were dealing with a rabid animal.

     "Joan," he begins and she snaps her eyes to look at him, their wild look startling, then steadying him.

     "You shouldn't doubt his feelings for you," he urges.

     "What would  _you_ know—" She begins and stops herself, a little too late.

     He swallows, the unsaid words apparently holding too much weight for his mind to let go of and looks away. Her eyes widen with realization but it's too late to take them back.

     "I admit," he starts, gesturing with one hand as he shrugs. "Not much...But he does. Love you, that is."

     She holds up her hand, silencing him. Her mouth is open in mute astonishment at his words. She had expected him to attack. Their eyes search the other's pair, one gaze concerned and the other, lost. Moments pass but time stays still.

      _Everything is so wrong._ _  
_

     "When?" She asks, her lower lip quivering under the burden of innumerable words. 

     Sherlock shakes his head resolutely, looking to the floor.

     " _Please_ —" She breaks off. She reads alarm in his eyes when he raises them to look at her.

     "Since after Mark shot me." 

     She winces sharply at the answer, squeezing her eyes shut.

     "Why didn't you tell me then?" She forces the words out. Her aim is to keep talking. Talking would keep it all away.

     "You weren't in the right state of mind for me to provide you with this information."

     She huffs mirthlessly at that, her eyes incredulous. She kneads her forehead with fists.

      _And yet he is right._

"It's been _months_ since then. Why not tell me earlier than today?" She demands, because she needs to know why her life is such a hopeless wreckage.

      At this question, she can almost  _see_ him closing off, his face growing solemn and eyes turning indifferent. She raises her head, throwing a pleading look in his direction before another near-delirious laugh escapes her.

      " _Joan—"_

"It has been months, Sherlock. Why not then?" She grits out, her patience thinning.

     He falters, his lips moving and twisting as his chest heaves. She tilts her head, eyes demanding.

     "We were making progress," His words are out, quieter and slower than she expected. More resigned than cautious. She understands his hesitation now. There's cold fury within her.

     "This is what you call  _progress? Lying to me by omission?"_

_How does he always think about just himself?_

_"_ I did not  _lie._ I didn't."

     "Sherlock, _all_ of this happened because of Moriarty," she clutches at her forehead, eyes shut. "If you just hadn't been so  _obsessed_ with him—"

     "You are blaming  _me_ for his actions?" Sherlock cuts through her hysterics. "Joan,  _I_ am not the one who was assigned to kill you. Neither was I the one who made it all happen." _  
_

     "No, Sherlock. I am blaming you for your self-destructive tendencies." Her nails are piercing the skin of her palm through the duvet she clutches in her left hand.

     "Oh so it's alright when _you_ do the exact same thing?"

     "I  _stayed. I LIVED."_ She jabs her index finger in his direction, rising to her feet, dropping the fistful of pure white cloth.

      _I didn't give up._ _  
_

"I didn't play cat and mouse with a psychopathic criminal, Sherlock."

     "You have helped me on my cases."

     She shakes her head, tonguing her cheek.

      _To protect you. To try and save you from yourself. To be useful to the people of London. To_ any _one_.

     Her nostrils flare as she tries to keep everything within her from exploding.

     "If you were so against it, against  _me,_ you didn't have to become my flatmate.  _That_ is where it all began. None of this would have happened if you hadn't agreed."

     "Huh. No. You would have taken that damn pill and I would have put a bullet through my brain and we would have died without ever knowing the other existed.  _That's_ what would have happened." _  
_

     Sherlock glares at her, a disbelieving expression on his face. His fist clenches and Joan stares at it, entranced. She seems to have gotten through to him.

      _Finally._

     He walks right past her and he is out the door of their room before she can say another word. She stares at the door long after he has left, its deafening bang still ringing in her ears.

     She lowers herself onto the soft mattress again, her eyes roving over the room with no sense of purpose.

     They fall on a newspaper propped up against a vase on the mantle, headline blurred but the picture clear.

     Sherlock and Joan's embrace is splattered on the front page.

 

* * *

 

     


	11. What You Need

* * *

 

     Joan Watson knows how to heal with her hands because she is a doctor. She knows how to kill with her hands because she is a soldier. She knows how to protect with her hands because she is a carer.

     But for the life of her, she doesn't know how to make someone stay without laying a hand on them.

     She is still reeling from Sherlock's words—his actions—when the sun sets, the horizon darkening in front of her unseeing eyes.

     A cold breeze blows, ruffling locks of hair over her face but she sits still, eyes unblinking as they sting.

It has always been her who walks out the door every single time because she thinks that her temper might get the best of her—what if she  _hurts_ him...she has spent too many years on the battlefield to trust her control more than her reflexes.

      So when he walked out that door that morning, it wasn't just that she was  _shocked_ that he did, it was also the fact that she feared what might happen were she to lay a finger on him to _stop_ him from leaving.

     What scares her though is not the fact that his fist clenched, it is not the look in his eyes as he stared at her. It is that he left.

     Her lips move as they have all afternoon with the ghosts of words she could have said.

     She breathes in and out.

     She knows her reaction has skipped past normal hours ago, that by now, she should be grieving or at least mourning the loss of the frail trust she had carefully built with Mark after what he did. But she cannot cry or complain, for even if they are cathartic actions, she is aware that no amount of self-pity is going to help her find her footing again.

     She has heard soldiers on the battlefield experience those flashes of their entire lives, just zooming by and gracing their last minutes. 

     What she doesn't know is whether it is normal to have those flashes when you are alive and well. Just as she had experienced them on touching warm liquid on Sherlock's abdomen the day Mark chose to kill her, too.

 

* * *

 

     "Moran is tracking us," Sherlock snarls, striding into Mycroft's grey-washed office.

     Mycroft looks away from where she is peering at her computer screen and regards him coolly.

     "Ah, yes," she murmurs, her eyes flicking to something that lies on her desk for a moment before looking at him again. "I am well aware."

     Sherlock's nostrils flare at her feigned indifference and he walks up to her desk, picking up the newspaper as she intended him to.

     They've made it look affectionate, his attempt at protection. The image is large, his head bowed and hand cradling the back of Joan's head, the other arm curled around her waist. She isn't facing the camera and neither is he, his whole attention focused on her. It looks like an embrace when it has no right to. He flings the copy back onto the desk.

     "We do  _not_ need media attention right now," he says through his teeth.

     He remembers the panic tearing through him as the faceless reporters descended on them, his arm shooting to his side in search of Joan only to clutch at air.

      _He remembers her s_ _cream._

     "Hence I am arranging for Miss Thompson to join us here instead."

     His eyes snap to Mycroft's a moment too late and she sees through him. Her expression becomes grim.

     "Only two such incidents occurred."

     Sherlock slams his hands on the table. "You were meant to keep her  _safe,"_ he growls.

     Mycroft rises to her feet. "As I did. The media attacks had to happen before intervention. You know that very well so do not force blame upon me."

     He huffs mirthlessly, eyes falling to the picture again. He tears them away from it and glares at the wall instead. The shades of plain brown and grey of her office remind him of the interior of a vault. Impersonal and cold.

      _But safe._

"It was the grief that weakened her defenses then. You are aware of her capabilities when she is not so overwhelmed," Mycroft speaks, as if those words are supposed to be a consolation.

     He growls wordlessly, turning on his heel to run a hand through his hair. He detests losing control in front of her.

     "Was that really a wise decision, brother mine?" Come her cloying words, floating over his shoulder all honey-sweet. He can keep  _nothing_ from her anymore.

     "What else was I supposed to do?!" He snarls, whipping around to glower at her. "She wanted to know."

     He cannot bear the faintly pitying look she gives him.

     "She deserved to know," he says quietly, his anger at Mycroft dissipating as a result of sheer exhaustion. Sherlock believes it to be caused by all the discussions of  _sentiment_ sapping away at his energy reserves. It makes him wonder how Joan handles all of it with her extreme sensitivity and good nature. And of course, the ghosts of her past.

     She raises her chin and Sherlock translates her blink as agreement.

     "Any updates on Moran?" Sherlock asks and Mycroft swipes a graceful hand on the mousepad of her laptop before she gestures to him.

     Sherlock crosses to the other side of the desk and leans in to look at the computer screen.

     The same face—the one he had come to recognise recently through Mycroft's sources—looks back at him, blank and cold. But this time, there is a flood of information under the image. Tidbits under last known location, profile, personal life, occupation and colleagues and education and known frequented places and the gratefulness Sherlock feels towards his sister is something he loathes because with this final bit of help from her, his debt could never be repaid for that is the extent and significance of what she has done for him.

     "Last known location isn't even the same city. This is hardly the latest information on him," he speaks sharply, scrolling through the irrelevant and yet important information.

     "Sherlock," Mycroft enunciates from where she stands beside him, a warning edge to her tone which makes Sherlock look up questioningly, an irritated frown between his eyebrows. He knows that he was just criticising to express his displeasure at how indebted he was to her and knows that she is aware of it, too.

     Mycroft doesn't even deign his annoyed gaze a glance, looking instead at the door through which he had barged in just minutes ago. Sherlock follows her line of vision to see Joan standing at the door.

 

* * *

 

     Joan is walking aimlessly through the halls of the manse just for something to do when she hears faint voices. She walks to it slowly and without purpose, hearing bits of the conversation as she draws nearer.

     "Any updates on Moran?"

     Her steps falter and stop of their own accord and she holds her breath, her ears straining to hear another sound from the mysterious room.

     "Last known location isn't even the same city. This is hardly the latest information on him."

     Moran.  _Mark._

Moriarty.

     Joan steps into full view of the room, snapped out of her reverie. Sherlock and Mycroft stand side-by-side, the former regarding something— _probably Moran's criminal profile, if he has one_ , her mind supplies automatically—on the screen of an innocuous grey laptop sitting on the table.

     For all she knew, Mycroft probably ran the entire country using the gadget.

     Mycroft draws Sherlock's attention to Joan's presence sharply and she wonders yet again, what it is that is motivating Sherlock to not only tolerate Mycroft's presence but also actively engage in plotting and scheming with her.

     And why is it that they are trying to hide every plan of action from her.

     Joan meets Sherlock's eyes.

     He walks around the desk and she parts her lips to say something to him when he marches right past her and she feels something heavy settle in her stomach at the flat look in his eyes.

     She stares helplessly at Mycroft for several beats, recognizing the weight within to be leaden guilt. She nods once, hoping it conveys her thanks before turning around and deciding which way to go to look for him.

     She roams the long halls in search of him, using the time to organize her thoughts.

     Joan Watson has detested Mycroft Holmes since their very first meeting. The protectiveness she had felt towards Sherlock on encountering this control freak of a dangerous woman had grown exponentially. Something within her had shifted and clicked into place—rather like the magazine of her SIG—Anderson and Donovan's words echoing in her mind with Mycroft standing in her line of sight.

     She wonders if Mycroft had noticed the steadiness of her right hand that night. It was the same hand she had then used to show Hope to his grave.

     Joan knows that, had Mycroft been a man, he would have been considerably less dangerous as a testament to the fact that men evolved as imbeciles, the brawn to female brains and the weapons of war that women have wielded from behind the scenes since before the advent of civilization.

     But Mycroft is a woman and a naturally shrewd one at that and Joan—a soldier and a woman herself—would never admit it but she has spent nights calculating the amount of damage Mycroft could single-handedly cause worldwide were she so inclined.

     For what is it that drives a woman—a member of the counterpart specially evolved to think, mother and nurture—to work and raise rank until she has the authority to command an entire country at the snap of her fingers?

      _What_ is her motivator if she is not just another power-hungry bureaucrat?

     She has never hated and admired someone more than she does Mycroft. It is a bitter feeling in the pit of her stomach, layered heavy on her tongue. All the gratitude she feels towards the woman has compartmentalized itself elsewhere within her, not once overlapping with nor diluting the raw disgust and anger she also feels. Whatever it is that made Sherlock the way he is today, _feeling_ all of that and actively repressing it, Joan just  _knows_ in her heart that Mycroft was the cause behind it.

     And now Joan watches Mycroft's pathetic attempts at making things right from the sidelines, all the while trying to take bullets for Sherlock because he must know that someone is _there_ for him. She wants to right all the wrongs ever done to him.

     Irene was wrong. Mycroft is hardly The Icewoman. Just like them all, she feels too much and despises it.

     Joan dislikes the thought that slips in, that perhaps Mycroft is a time bomb, just like Sherlock. Just like her.

     She sees Sherlock already settled in his thinking pose across a sofa in a room she passes by and she enters quietly, stopping a foot away from him. She stands in a living room, judging by the sofa and light decor of the room, no device nor books in sight. It exists solely for entertaining guests. She wonders how many such rooms are on that floor. And tries to imagine Mycroft entertaining  _guests._ She shakes her head to rid her mind of the curious thought.

     Perhaps this is Sherlock's way of asking her to leave him alone without engaging in a conversation. His posture is meant to fool the onlooker into thinking that he is deep in slumber or thought. But she knows better. She always does.

     She approaches him and covers his steepled hands with her left one. His eyes fly open, flat yet accusing in their depth.

     "I'm sorry." His eyes fall shut and he shuns her touch, sliding off the sofa. She stares one moment out the window behind the sofa; it is dark outside. She quickly walks after him.

     "With what I said, there is no difference between me and the people who punch you when you tell them...the truth," she tries with a hand on his trapezius. He tenses under her touch. He is listening.

     "Without you, I wouldn't have ever known," she says, her rough voice fading as she realized the fact for herself. Mark would never told her. A lie bigger than that of his identity and occupation. Her hand drops limply to her side.

     Sherlock turns to face her.

     "You didn't ask me how I knew."

     She is thrown by the question, not having expected him to speak to her at all. "What?"

     He simply tilts his head, knowing she heard him perfectly well the first time. 

     "I didn't need to," she shrugs, unable to meet his eyes. She was afraid of what they might show him. Had her admiration for his skills waned simply because he told one ugly truth?

     "You are the expert on human nature. I questioned Mark's motives and his benefit in dating you." Joan raises her head to look at Sherlock bemusedly. "You were grieving," he says, his voice firm and steady. Joan keeps looking at him. He mutters something under his breath and runs a hand through his hair as he does when he is frustrated. Joan suddenly desires for the days when things were simpler.

     "No...I—I get it. I wondered about that, too. Why would he want to date someone in mourning?" She exhales sharply, biting her lip before looking away from and back at Sherlock. "You got it right. People generally avoid the grieving."

     "So why would he apply for the job of an assistant at your surgery, with the position just recently and rather conveniently vacated, which would place him neatly in the schedule of your daily activities without a hitch?"

     Joan is confused. She doesn't understand the point of this. What would be gained from her knowing how Sherlock came to his conclusion?

     "Why would he seek you out despite your best efforts to make him aware of your—condition?" He falters only for a moment, but it is enough to make something prick inside her chest.

     She brushes aside the ghost of the old, familiar, hollow feeling and wonders instead on how Sherlock knows about how she met Mark in such detail. How many minutes of thinking did it take? She nods weakly, still lost.

     "Ulterior motive?" She tries with a huff, and it clicks into place just as she questions him. But Sherlock speaks again and she shoves the realization away mentally, not willing to ponder over it for even a second.

     "And then came his confession here. The memory stick with his previous details. Taking into consideration his particular skill set of assassination—"

     "Did it—"

     "No," he speaks quickly. "That was supposed to be a test more than anything, know this. A test to see your limits and also your desire to be with him. And it worked." There is vague admiration in his voice.

     "How?" She breathes, incredulous.

     He raises an eyebrow. "You gave it to  _me._ You could have seen it for yourself but you didn't." His eyebrows come together for a second before his jaw locks and expression smoothens out. "But he couldn't have hinted at his final assignment in any of the documents in the stick. That would have been the last straw for you."

     "He took  _care of me, Sherlock,"_ her words come out more pained than she expected and she holds her breath, turning away from him to walk to the window. It is easier to look out of it than into Sherlock's earnest gaze.

     There is a pause and then Sherlock materializes in front of her and she blinks hard at the moisture in her eyes.

     "And I am thankful for that," he says, voice layered with meaning as he looks at her intensely as if to communicate something that he couldn't voice.

     She lets the thoughts—the almost-realization she previously shunned—take over her mind one by one.

     So far, Sherlock's words only formed a vague theory. That  _perhaps_ Mark had been the sniper assigned to her.

     "He could have been asked to stay in contact with his target until further instruction. But how was he to keep an eye on a war veteran for an indeterminable amount of time without getting discovered? How was he to lower her defenses?" Sherlock speaks again, his voice hushed.

     It was all so speculative.  _So vague. No hard evidence._

"It isn't like you to guess." She breathes, holding onto the precipice. 

Sherlock offers her an almost self-deprecating twist of his lips.

     Joan can't believe it. Here was Sherlock standing before her after explaining his deduction, not—for once—to show off, to preen or to fish for appreciation, but to give her a margin for hope.

     This isn't the Sherlock she knows. He isn't asking to take his word as gospel, like he always does. Instead, he is allowing her to hope for the existence of another possibility, even when he is sure of what he says. He believes it but he is trying. He is asking her to decide the conclusion for herself without saying a word. Asking her to bury this where it is if it's possible for her to fool her own heart into believing that Mark's intentions were true when he met her.

     He has given her all of his observations to discard as meaningless, to declare them as vain attempts at accusing Mark of being a sniper on the job to kill her, of orchestrating their "meeting" solely to be able to put her as well as Sherlock down once the opportunity arose. At the instructions of a certain faceless henchman of a long dead criminal mastermind.

     Sherlock actually wants her to be able to go back to her life with Mark. Without the hindrance of his ill-timed revelations.

     He is apologizing all over again when it wasn't ever his fault in the first place. But this time, she doesn't want him to pay for her sins.

     "How do you know he isn't working for Moran even now?" She whispers and his lips part in disbelief. It seems that he had been sure that she would take the out he had offered.

     He breathes in through his lips, eyes roving around and over the room searchingly before they alight on something over her shoulder and stop there, his words dying along with their stillness.

     Joan frowns and turns around to see what it is that holds Sherlock's complete attention and she can't look away either.

     Mark stands at the door of the living room.

     Several long moments pass, no one speaks nor moves to pierce the silence and the stillness that seems to have tied itself up around them, born out of confusion and shock.

     Then just as abruptly as he had frozen into silence, Sherlock seems to jolt into motion and Joan looks at him, watching his eyes flit from her to Mark before he suddenly pretends to have remembered something.

     She isn't having it.

     She grabs his wrist just as he is about to walk away from her and to the door where Mark still stands in hesitation, successfully stopping him in his tracks.

     Joan needs him here.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to click kudos. It makes my day to see that count. Your appreciation feeds my muse. Really, thank you.


	12. Let It Go Free

* * *

 

     Sherlock's glare flicks between her and then their hands. She responds by tightening her grip on his wrist and pulling his reluctant body to her side.

     "Joan," Mark nods in her direction, eyes scrutinising them both. Any other day, Mark would have greeted her with a hug or a peck on the lips. But not today.

     Even he senses that something is off.

     When neither of them break the silence, Mark sighs and asks, "What's going on?"

     Joan and Sherlock look at each other and then back at Mark, not knowing where to begin. Mark tries again as Sherlock slips his hand out of Joan's grasp.

     "Listen...when Mycroft contacted me saying that you were going to stay with Sherlock for a while, I thought it was because you wanted a break," he says. Joan's mind adds more words to that sentence. _From me._  "But in the newspaper today—Joan, what was that?"

     "Reporters surprised us. Someone must have tipped them off to what was happening in complete secrecy," Sherlock surprises Joan by speaking up.

     For a moment, Mark's eyes snap to Joan from where they were looking curiously at Sherlock, roving over her once with mild alarm. He seems to understand what has been left unsaid. He tilts his head in Sherlock's direction in acquiescence and gratitude. Sherlock acknowledges it with an imperceptible nod of his own. Joan looks in confusion at both of them while their silent conversation goes on.

     "Why would you two need counselling?"  _Shouldn't we be the ones who need it?_ Joan adds mentally, knowing the other meaning behind Mark's straightforward question.

     "Joan has problems with me," Sherlock blurts so quickly that Joan would find it comical were she not incensed by the comment. Instead of bashing his head against a wall, she pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers as her eyes squeeze shut.

     She hears Mark's uncertain huff from across the room.

     "What is he saying, Jo?" Comes his murmur, suddenly much closer than before. Her stomach churns at the fond nickname as her cheeks heat. She can feel Sherlock's eyes on her.

     "He—uh, ahem," she clears her throat, finding it difficult to say the words. The warmth in Mark's voice and presence is so overwhelmingly familiar that her eyes prick instantly at his gentle question. Like a child finally breaking down in the arms of a concerned mother after holding on for too long. She remembers those times again. Back when she was constantly falling apart and Mark heard not a word of why but stayed anyways. The memories in contrast to her new knowledge about her husband makes her grimace with fresh agony.

     "He wasn't going to come back," she whispers roughly, averting her eyes as she gestures vaguely with her hand. She can practically  _feel_ Sherlock's stillness. This must be so intriguing to him, she thinks. Like watching his deductions about her time with Mark during his own demise being proved.

     "When he got on the plane after...after," she swallows, clears her throat and tries again. She hates the effect Mark's presence has on her with Sherlock watching her like a hawk. Her pain seems pathetic in front of him. "When Mycroft told me, I uh..."

     Warmth floods her chest unbidden when she hears Mark's sharp inhale, his hand on her cheek and words caring. "Why didn't you say anything?" He asks, voice concerned. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't _see_." His voice is hushed, a clear sign that his words are meant only for her ears.

     She is astonished to see Sherlock's downcast eyes.

     She withdraws slowly from Mark's touch but he doesn't seem to take the hint.

     "Is that why...?" He trails off. Joan purses her lips and nods. This was no time to have a breakdown. Especially not in front of one of the many causes of it. She tries to get a grip on herself.

     Mark throws a glance in Sherlock's direction before lowering his voice further. "I thought it was because he was being held."

     At this, Joan sees Sherlock looking at her once more through her peripheral vision. She swallows.

     They hadn't let Sherlock do his job when the plane landed just after taking off. He had climbed into Mycroft's car without a look in her direction and they had left, quite literally leaving Joan and Mark stranded there with Mycroft's worker. But in the few minutes between his departure and arrival, Mycroft had revealed to her just what Sherlock going away meant. 

      _That was an astonishingly calm goodbye_ _._

_What do you mean?_

_He didn't tell you._

Her eyes had been sharp and yet pitiful, her lips parting as Joan's body numbed over. But before Mycroft could say anything else, she was called to the car by the man who had accompanied them.

     Mark had come to stand beside her and he had taken her hand in his, squeezing it lightly as she watched the plane rise into the sky mutely, eyes glazed over and unseeing. And then Mycroft's frozen expression as she stood at the car door with a phone to her ear had caught her attention. 

      _What's happened?_

Joan hadn't been able to believe her ears.

      _But he is dead. I mean, he told you he was dead—Moriarty?_  

     Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft contacted her for the next month or so. Mark had pointed out how they wouldn't let Moriarty's return become a 'get out of jail free' card. Which meant that Sherlock was being detained until further notice. Until they found out who it was that had released the clip and put them behind bars. She almost wished they didn't find the culprit.

     Until then, Sherlock was safe. This was the only thought that had kept her sane throughout the time of Sherlock's disappearance. She reassured herself that he was fine, wherever he was. Better than how he would have been in Eastern Europe.

     So she stayed back and tried to cope instead of demanding answers from Mycroft.

     Because the very _t_ _hought_ of losing Sherlock after realizing what he means to her fills her with all-consuming agony.

     "Joan..." Mark sighs at her silence, hand reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

     She cracks, leaning into the touch out of habit as her eyes fall shut of their own accord. She recoils when she hears sharp footsteps, eyes snapping open to Sherlock's retreating back.

 

* * *

 

     He watches Joan struggle with her emotions. She gravitates towards Mark and his affection like a parched child to the shimmering illusion of an oasis. The only difference is, Mark is a river, overflowing and fulfilling.

     Where Sherlock had only ever been a desert.

     He stops in his tracks, almost stumbling due to the abrupt end to his motion.

     Sherlock would be lying if he even pretended to not know where that thought had emerged from. He has known for a while now. But he was good at ignoring it over and over. This time, he entertained the thoughts.

     That is what he had never been able to give. He had never had anyone to exchange affection with as a child or even as a growing teen. His parents always doted on him but he never had anyone else with whom to practice this ritual that everybody was so at ease with.

     He  _wants._ He wants to—for  _Joan—_ like he has never wanted to before. But he is incapable of it. Of showing any kind of affection,  _any_ manner of caring. He is brash and insulting and abrasive.

     She flourishes under the care of someone like Mark. Like a sapling growing towards the first rays of light, Joan leans into Mark’s caress and becomes content for that instant of time as Sherlock watches Mark's face soften equally.

     He doesn't  _understand smiling_ just to be  _nice,_ compliments don't sit right in his mouth and he has never been one for material generosity. He doesn't care what she enjoys doing, what she likes for gifts, her favourite book genres or what colours she prefers for clothes and flowers but he  _wants_ to. _  
_

     Oh, it's not like he doesn't naturally notice these things about her and organize them in his Mind Palace. But he has only ever known to analyze and store. He can't use that information to please her. _Because_ _what's the point?!_ All these useless, nonproductive social conventions.

     And why should he change who he is just for her? Even when the strength of the urge is crippling.

     He wants to be able to be enough for her. Just enough. Being more than that is something he has long ago written off as impossible.

     But he can't.

     And that's where Mark comes in.

     Sherlock had watched the way Mark's eyes had widened in clear alarm when he told him about the reporters. It had happened before. And Mark had not been there then but he had observed Joan's behaviour. Had she gone through fresh nightmares? Had she panicked on seeing a flash of light on the street? Whatever it may have been, it had been obvious enough for Mark to notice.

     After all, Mark may be a trained assassin, just as sharp as Sherlock in his observations, but Joan is a stoic Captain. And she needs someone to break her down in a good way from time to time.

     Sherlock needs her and she needs Mark. Sherlock will do anything to keep them from falling apart.

   

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kudos count makes me want to write all of my JoanLock ideas all at once but—self-control. The chapters in this story have multiplied and I am trying to estimate how long it will take for this emotional rollercoaster to finish. I just keep writing more and more. Addictive, your appreciation.


	13. Sinking Ships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading this, I hope you have read Watched You Leave, the companion piece to Chapter 7: Permanent Mark. It isn't necessary per se, but it's just there to enable you to read between the lines...I think?

* * *

 

     "Joan, hold out your hands and Sherlock, take them."

     "Are you sure this isn't illegal? The next moment she might ask us to undress and dance," he mutters, throwing a glare in Thompson's direction. Joan slaps his hand. Their knees bump as she shifts, trying to become comfortable in her leather chair across from his. It's the kind of chair you find in museums, Joan thinks. With that diamond button detail and brass studs on the rich, brown arms. She wonders if Mycroft actually relaxes in these.

     "Now Joan, I want you to recount your experience on the battlefield."

     Sherlock almost flinches at Joan's tightened grip. The counselor gives him a knowing look. He glares at her.

     "I am not going to talk about how my mates died," Joan murmurs, her voice already the low, threatening susurrus that Sherlock is so exceptionally fearful yet fond of.

     "We need to make progress. And so far—"

     "Ask Sherlock to talk about his drug habit then," Joan cuts in, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

     "It wasn't a _habit_ ," Sherlock clicks out the 't'. "It helped me think."

     "I really do not see how overdosing leads to intellectual prowess, but whatever makes you happy," Joan shrugs, a corner of her lips twisting upwards.

     Sherlock growls. "I am going to kill Mycroft." 

     "Says it all the time. No need to worry," Joan says to Thompson who gives her a wary smile.

     "Why did she blab to _you_ about it?" Sherlock snarls.

      Joan grinds her teeth.

  _"You_ asked her. Why?  _When?"_

     "The day after I moved in. I didn't precisely ask 'has he ever OD'd?'. I just didn't want to come home to a corpse one day," she shrugs matter-of-factly. As if speaking about that incident doesn't affect her at all. Compared to everything else that had happened _after_ she came into his life, it shouldn't affect her so but it seems as if she has taken the responsibility of losing her mind over every bad thing that has ever happened to Sherlock. Or that he has ever done to himself.

     "So...I just said 'drugs' and she gave me a file."

     "A file," Sherlock sneers more to himself than her but she answers anyway.

     "Yes," she says, her voice subdued.

     "Go on, Joan," Thompson urges, eyebrows drawn together.

     Joan withdraws her hands roughly and storms out of the room. Thompson sighs and after a moment, follows her.

     Sherlock sits in silence, rubbing the pad of his right thumb over his left hand. 

     Thompson seems to have said something highly effective because Joan is back almost moments later, a grim look of determination set in her features.

     Sherlock straightens in his seat, eyeing Joan's outstretched hands warily for a moment before clasping them with his own.

     This is the first time ever she has spoken about the war with anyone after coming back to London. Sherlock's face is as unfathomable as ever, lips pressed together. Their hands soon change position without their knowledge, hers holding onto Sherlock's with all their strength as if she were afraid to let him go for even a moment. Sherlock in turn was comforting her absently, his fingers running over her skin, grip squeezing slightly whenever it seemed as if she had had enough.

     If Sherlock thought her blog posts were terrible, then her account of her experience in the war was much more so. He cannot handle the vivid descriptions after the first few minutes.

     But, of course, he won't admit it. Every word she speaks is laced with the stoic agony of recollection as she relives the memories. He loses her for long seconds at a time, only to bring her back to the present with a tug.

     He feels ire simmer inside him at the woman sitting in the same room as them, wondering what could possibly be achieved by hearing and watching Joan's torment.

 

* * *

 

 

     "You should sleep now," Sherlock says when they are back in their room, watching her with hidden concern.

     Thompson had left to attend to her other appointments back at her office. Sherlock estimated the amount of money Mycroft must be paying her to make _house calls._  

     "Why did you do it?" She mutters sharply.

     "Pardon?" He frowns.

     "Why did you _overdose_? And _don't_ tell me it was a mistake," She holds up a hand on seeing his lips part. "You could never fool me into thinking that a mind like yours failed at measuring out a dose."

     He pauses at that. Swallows.

     "I was bored," he says simply.

     It had been the wrong thing to say.

     Joan takes him by the collar and slams him against the door of their room, tightening her grip on his suit jacket.

     "Soldiers _die_ trying to keep people like you _alive_. And you get _wasted_ because you have had enough of the world and its _STUPIDITY_?!" She pulls him toward her  & shoves him back once again, while his hands scramble against the door for purchase.

     She leans into him, her hands fisting tighter in his jacket. Their ragged breaths are mingling and her eyes are wild.

     "Tell me, what is your life _worth_ if this is how you treat it!" 

     Growling in repugnance, she throws him to the floor and exits the room.

     Sherlock lies passively on the cold floor before blinking out the lights in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

     "You have something to say. Go on."

     Hiding his initial surprise at her words, Sherlock speaks.

     "The night of our last group session, Joan..."

     "Lashed out?" Sherlock blinks, offended.

     "Reacted physically to my words about overdosing. 'I was bored', to be precise." She raises her eyebrows as if to say 'no wonder.'

     "She left," he continues, ignoring the reaction,"Returned after a few hours. Thinking me to be asleep on the bed, she...had an emotional breakdown."

     He pauses.

     Trusting Sherlock to continue, Thompson doesn't interrupt.

     "In order: she apologized profusely, compared me to soldiers that had died in front of her and an empty vessel." He takes a deep breath.

     "And requested me to never leave her alone." He looks away and adds: "Again."

     After a long silence, Thompson says, "I was going to address her time during your demise in our next private session, if you were concerned. But it will be confidential information."

     "I wasn't concerned," Sherlock sneers.

     She glares all of a sudden and he leans back in his— _Mycroft's_ —armchair, cursing mentally at how far he has to lie back and straightens up abruptly.

     " _This_ woman means the world to you. Admitting that you care for her does not make you any less of a man—or a brain," she adds as an absurd afterthought.

     "Experiencing emotions is not a weakness. Whoever told you so was wrong. Surviving through the wreck that feelings turn you into, being proud of the scars that leave you a better human being is _strength_. Appreciate her while it lasts."

     "While _what_ lasts?" He snarls.

      _Nobody_ told  _him that caring wasn't an advantage._

It was his own conclusion.

     "Her time with you. You two are—clearly—not in any kind of a romantic relationship but she seeks affection, comfort and love just like any other human. She is going to look for someone else and she'll find him one day."

     Sherlock wonders if Thompson is disregarding Mark's existence on purpose. He wonders yet again  _exactly_ how _much_ this woman knows. 

     "She can't leave me," Sherlock says with finality. Time and time again, observations over various scenarios have proved just that.

     Joan leaves. But she always comes back. _  
_

     "Then while her _life_ lasts. You're aging. You both are absolutely reckless. One bullet, a slip of the foot, a blow, that is _all_ it takes, Sherlock." He doesn't like her tone.

     "She is a mere mortal after all."

     He leaves her sitting alone in the room, thunderous.

     Only the first two minutes had passed.

 

* * *

 


	14. Hightide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short but it was a necessity. Bear with me. This story is nearing its end.  
> Thank you for those 900 hits, those 57 kudos excluding the companion pieces and your comments.  
> Five bookmarks. Seriously? You flatter me. Loving the thought that some of you are still hanging on.

* * *

 

     "Had your roles been reversed, do you think Sherlock would have considered suicide?" Thompson asks, fingers tucked underneath her chin.

     "Whatever it is that you're trying to say—" Joan starts, heart reacting instantly to the memories that flash at the words.

     "I'm not trying to say anything. All I want you to be aware of is that you have invested a lot in a single person."

     She chuckles darkly. "I've invested _everything_  in him. He is the only person of significance I have in my life."

     It's not difficult admitting that anymore.

     "And does he know that?" Thompson asks, eyebrows raised. There's an edge to her tone, something that makes Joan bristle and look away, ashamed.

     She had forgotten about Mark. And it seemed that her counselor had noticed the slip. She eyes her ring.

     "Well, he must," she shrugs. "To him, it should be obvious."

     "Have you ever explicitly _stated_ it?"

     "...No," Joan mutters after a moment's hesitation. She tries to recollect a memory, any moment where she might have told him  _the truth._ Fear slithers up her spine at the possibility of saying it to him. No.

     "Then you should," Thompson says, leaning back and folding her hands in her lap as if to suggest finality.

     A genuine laugh escapes her.

     " _How?!"_ She asks. "Sherlock, you are the only person I am alive for. Did ya know that?" She mocks.

     "If that's how it is, then, yes. Exactly like that."

     Her grin slips off her face.

 

* * *

 

     Sherlock paces around their room, his skin crawling with withdrawal and not being within the walls of 221B.

     He turns around, his eyes fall on Joan's bowed head as she reads a book, and relaxes instantly.

     He frowns. She has been quieter than ever of late. He remembers the exact moment from when he began to observe the change. Her reticence for so long has  _worried_ him.

     He suddenly feels cold all over and resumes his pacing.

     On realizing the probable reason behind Joan's own kind of withdrawal, he had asked Mycroft to procure Thompson's notes on their last private session (nothing was confidential when it came to him, Thompson should have known that). He didn't think it was necessary to meet them separately as well as together for their sessions. But, apparently, the counselor was following "procedure". Not that he trusted either her or Mycroft. He had never had couple's therapy (obviously not) and he hadn't felt the need to do research on what was standard procedure (why clutter his Mind Palace) and yet he was sure that their sessions were bizarre.

     Well, they were quite bizarre themselves. He smirks with his eyes on the garden view out the window.

     "I wouldn't," he declares at large. He frowns again when Joan takes longer than usual to respond to him.

     "Sorry?" She asks softly, eyes lifting up to look at his back. 

     "I wouldn't commit suicide if you were to die, to answer your question." He turns around to lock eyes with her.

     "...How?" Joan asks. A furrow appears between his brows.

      _Relief?_

     "Mycroft," he mutters absently, his head tilted to the side as he focuses on gauging her reaction.

     "You asked for Mycroft's help?!" She puts the book aside, eyes still locked with his.

     "I shall not dignify the question with an answer since it is so blatantly obvious." Of all the things to focus on.

     "That's not the point," he flicks his hand to the side as if to swat away a particularly persistent fly.

     " _Why_?! Why go to all the trouble?"

     "Because you were not behaving as you would have normally since after the last private session," he says rapid-fire. "Now that your question's been answered, would you be so kind as to come back out of your excruciatingly slow thought processes?"

     "You have my attention," she smirks slowly and he finds his own lips curling in response.

     It wasn't the response he wanted, Joan not having realized the actual meaning behind his words, but it would do for now. 

     "There is absolutely no reason for you to off yourself on the occasion of my death," he shrugs. His words are nonchalant. He hopes.

     She sobers up, eyes downcast and lips pressed together. It's the same expression she has had for the last month. He only just got her back.

     "I don't understand!" He growls, his hands flying to his hair automatically. Joan doesn't even make a comment on how they will fall out early if he keeps tugging at them like she always points out. He groans under his breath.

     She sits there quietly in the chair by the desk, looking at him.

     "You are relieved.  _Why_ are you _relieved_?"

     Joan throws her classic are-you-taking-a-piss look at him.

     "You should be anything  _but_ relieved. I just admitted to the fact that I would not commit suicide if something were to happen to you. I believe that suggests that I do not care as much to end my life after the termination of yours—"

     He doesn't notice her face drain of colour, blind as he is in the high of explanation.

     "—whereas the counselor's notes on your session clearly state that you considered it—multiple times—after you were led to believe that I was dead; which is to say that you clearly feel—"

     He has to resort to functioning on autopilot before those words come out. He cannot, for some reason, speak about it unless he is far away from the present, unless he exercises greater control and detachment than he is usually capable of.

     So it is only after the words are out that he actually  _looks_ at Joan and hears the words that have left his lips once again, in a different light.

     "Relief is...hardly an expected reaction," he finishes lamely.

     There's silence for several beats, stretched out and tense while Sherlock's body primes up for fight or flight.

     Joan's still staring at him. Just staring. It drives him mad, the look in her eyes. It's blank yet focused. He doesn't know what to make of it.

     His chest is still heaving, trying to catch his breath. Or perhaps it's arming him with oxygen because his brain senses danger. The reaction is ridiculous, he thinks. He should have no reason to fear her.

     "I shouldn't have to explain why," she says, her tone revealing absolutely nothing. She stands up and he holds his ground as she huffs through her nose.

     Sherlock watches her walk to the door slowly, as if she were indecisive. He sees her fingers grip the doorknob. 

     He raises his eyes to her face when she turns to look at him.

     "This isn't an argument," she says quietly.

     His brows furrow as he tries to puzzle that out and something in her eyes shifts.

     Sherlock feels suffocated. Strangled. Choked.

     His hand reaches out just as she shuts the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

     Anger was better than falling apart in front of Sherlock. Because doing the latter was just providing him with more ammunition for your own annihilation.

     But this time, it was impossible for her to hold up that facade anymore.

     She curses herself as she steps out of Mycroft's house for losing her mask for a single moment just before she left the room. She is sure Sherlock saw. He misses nothing. And she had been doing so well, too. Until she had to make sure he knew that it wasn't an argument. Leaving would have broken the rules. But it hadn't been an argument. That in itself had been knowledge enough for Sherlock. The fact that she left told him that she hadn't been able to bear that. That his words had hit the mark.

     Her phone chimes and she pulls it out of her pocket. She has been keeping her phone close of late. It has been on her at all times.

      _I think it's time we met. Don't you?_

     It is because a certain someone has been sending her a lot of texts lately. She wasn't going to let Sherlock fall into a trap again. She won't lose him again.

     So she texts back.

      _221B Baker Street._

She might not be armed. But a weapon is the last thing she needs.

     For what is the use of arms on a suicide mission?

     No.

     She will be a time bomb instead.

 

* * *

      

     Mycroft strides into Sherlock's room, expression taut. She spots him standing at the balcony. _Smoking._

"This is hardly the time to be indulging, brother," she speaks, approaching him. She stands at the balcony doors, holding her breath. It wouldn't do to smell the smoke.

     "What?" He turns around, face pinched.

      _Oh, what did he do this time?_

"Moran," she says and the cigarette held delicately between his fingers gets crushed in his palm. He must have done something irreparable this time. 

     "He contacted Joan," she mutters, angry at herself for not having realized that it would have come to that sooner. She turns around and begins walking. Sherlock follows as expected.

     " _What?!"_ He snarls and Mycroft fights off a wince at his volume. She makes her way across the floor.

     "You heard me. Her reply was your address. We are heading there now."

     "How long?" He asks as she descends the stairs.

     "I was busy," her lips twitch in protest when she crushes the urge to grimace. It was  _not_ her fault.

     "How  _long, Mycroft?"_ He bites out. She locks eyes with Anthea who is standing at the foot of the stairs, stepping in front of her. Anthea holds her coat open and Mycroft quickly weaves her arms in, sliding it on. _  
_

     "41 minutes since Joan replied to his text," Mycroft tells him as she continues to stride across the floor, shoulder to shoulder with Anthea. Sherlock is silent beside her, his mind already racing to catch up to her own calculations. It has been approximately fifteen minutes since Joan's encounter with Moran, taking into account the evening traffic.

     "Rowan," Mycroft utters meaningfully, when the woman catches up with them, throwing a sharp look in the direction of the file she carries. Her eyes narrow in understanding and she discreetly swipes a couple of papers out of the file, slipping them inside her suit jacket. Sherlock hardly needs to see the text exchange transcript from the last few weeks.

     Mycroft had not wished to reveal Moran's correspondence because nothing could have utterly consumed and subsequently destroyed Sherlock had he been aware of the fact. Joan had wisely not provoked Moran, nor alerted Sherlock.

     This time, it was in both their interests to keep Sherlock out of the line of fire. But Mycroft hadn't anticipated Joan becoming a part of the firing line instead.

     So here she was, scrambling to save the woman. Because if she doesn't, then it would be equal to letting Sherlock die. Joan has become Sherlock's very lifeline.

     "Ready?" She asks. And to the sound of Rowan and Anthea's chorus of 'yes ma'am', she gets in the car.

     It simply wouldn't do to let Joan be killed.

 

* * *

 

 

 


	15. Currents Swept You Out Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for not having updated sooner. I was busy shifting to a new city and since uni kept me busy, I didn't have time to write. But now I'll make time since this problematic chapter is done.

* * *

 

     Joan enters through the front door, slipping the spare key she plucked from its hiding spot in the gap between the stairs and the fence into her pocket and waits for a moment. The sound of traffic lowers, the honk of a cab still ringing in her ears. There is complete silence from the flat to her right and she hopes for Mrs. Hudson's sake that she is absent. 

     She begins to walk up the stairs, feeling the adrenaline prepare her for the final confrontation. Carefully avoiding the few creaking steps, she makes it up to the landing and takes a deep breath. Her heart rattles against her ribcage, steadying her, grounding her. 

     She will put an end to Moriarty's network.

     And how poetic an ending. She will die for the one who died for her. All the while destroying a madman's playmates. A soft, mirthless huff escapes her mouth.

     The door to their flat is ajar and she pushes it open, stepping in through the wide enough gap with her hands clearly visible. She remembers—realizes that this isn't  _their_ flat anymore. It is just _his_ now. The only name on the lease being Sherlock Holmes. But that is her last coherent thought before she lays eyes on the man in the room.

     She stops in her tracks, terror freezing her spine as it skitters down and immobilizes her limbs. The silhouette of the man standing by the window turns slowly, as if reluctance hinders his motion and the golden lamplight of the room throws his features in relief. It softens him, his outline framed against the dark of the night.

     Breath stutters out of her and she sways on her feet. Her head swims at the sight in front of her.

      _Impossible._

The muscles in her calves seize painfully as she tries to fight the urge to take a step back. A tremor skitters down her spine and into her leg, making her grit her teeth against the fresh pain. She curls her hands into fists by her side, her entire body coiling with carefully controlled energy. She shakes her head once, blinking hard. The sight in front of her doesn't change. Her breath rattles with every exhale, loud in the silence of the sitting room. She inhales once again and speaks.

     "Mark?"

     Her voice comes out lower than she intended. It irks her. And then she has a ridiculous urge to laugh because of all the things that should bother her in this situation, it's the fact that her voice faltered. His expression is unreadable for the first time ever and it unsettles her. This feels like the real him.

     Mark doesn't say a word, choosing instead to just fix her with an intent look. Joan swallows with what she recognizes as trepidation. She can't possibly be afraid of him.

     _How many lies?_

     The silence stretches on, lending tranquility to the atmosphere but on the inside, the adrenaline is creating a pulsing explosive.

     She glances to the side and then lets her head turn fully to look over her shoulder and takes an involuntary step to the side.

     A woman stands in the kitchen—their kitchen. Sherlock’s kitchen. It takes her a moment to realize that the phantom pain in her leg has vanished.

     “Dr. Watson,” the woman smiles and begins to walk towards her from around the table. The sound of her soft footsteps rings in Joan’s ears before the stranger finally comes to a stop at the kitchen door.

     “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Joan regards her carefully. A woman in her late forties stands beside her.

     But there isn’t the wealth of information that always accompanies suspects when Sherlock’s by her side. Joan feels lost and frustrated when her senses come up with nothing more than what she can see.

    “Who are _you_?”

    “One way to underestimate a woman? Assume she is a man,” She murmurs cryptically.

     “Moran,” Joan’s soft gasp seems to please her.

     “I think I understand why Sherlock Holmes enjoys your company.”

     “Then that man?”

     Moran just smiles at her as if she were a six year old. “Fake identity,” she says simply.

     "What do you want?" Joan is losing her patience.

     "Just your cooperation,” she begins in a placating tone. “Which I've already gained. The important thing is...Sherlock needs to learn his lesson. He will not get away with destroying the world I built over the years."

     "World? _Your_ network,” Joan tries hard to frame it as a question but she already knows the answer.

     "Tell me Joan, is it wise to show your face to one of the most brilliant people in London? Why would a mastermind hide the identity of a lackey?" She cants her head to the side and the action reminds Joan of Sherlock so she tightens her fist until the pain of her nails digging into her skin makes his image disappear.

     "No— _you_?"

     "Moriarty was my child," she says quietly. As if those words mean anything to Joan.

     "Your child.”

     "Yes. Just as your husband is," she raises a hand to gesture at Mark and Joan clenches her fist tighter.

     "You see, Joan, it takes a lot of effort to rise from rags to...complete control of the largest criminal network. You have to care for your people. Nurture them. Teach them. Train them. That's how you succeed. That's how every army works after all." She is walking out of the kitchen now, slowly advancing towards her. Joan stays put.

     "But when someone comes along and turns your family to ashes...you go a bit—mad,” she says while passing Joan’s armchair. Her eyes glint once and Joan’s heart stutters. But then the look is gone and yet Joan’s fear hasn’t. She believes Moran. This woman is mad.

     "My dear boy loved to play games and he found a playmate in Sherlock. Do you know how wonderful it is to find someone who thinks on the same level as you do? It's a seldom occurrence for the likes of us. But Sherlock didn't play by the rules. He killed my people. And now I will do the same to him." She walks to the window and one elegant finger lifts to skim glass.

     "You can't touch him."

     "Oh but I can. You, Joan, are the key to this all. It's only fair that I take out his family for what he did to mine."

     "It doesn't work that way. You can't get to him through me."

      "Oh my.” It’s a quiet mutter. She turns to look at Joan. “Did our happy family have a little domestic?"

     "You sent them. Those reporters. You've been tracking us. We are hardly family."

     "Oh but you are practically married," she smirks.

     "We are not a couple," she snarls and begins to stride towards Moran. It'll all be easier if she just ends this woman. The clicking sound of a gun's safety being lifted makes her blood run cold.

     "And you don't seem very fond of that fact," Moran says, her voice icy.

     Joan slowly turns her head and locks eyes with Mark. It's somehow more difficult than staring down the barrel of the gun in his hand.

     She hears a soft chuckle.

     "You are actually unarmed? You don't have to be a martyr for Sherlock, dear. He can take care of himself just fine,” she takes a step towards Joan, her back to the window. She regrets not getting her gun.

     “Yes, but it is my job to take care of the psychopaths on his tail.”

     Mark's face is still expressionless and Joan doesn't know who to keep an eye on.

     "You thought this would be as simple as dying with me?" Joan hears vague derision as Moran ignores her words.

     "Kill me then. Be done with it," Joan challenges. But she has no plan of going down without getting rid of this woman first. Sherlock must be safe. So she steps once towards Mark instead. "Pull the trigger, Mark. Do it."

     "He won't be swayed by guilt. He works for me. Always has. Proposing to you wasn't a part of the plan but since you did it for us...It was simply easier," she smiles, turning back to look out the window.

     _But how was he to keep an eye on a war veteran for an indeterminable amount of time without getting discovered?_

     Joan only swallows at the words. She doesn't know what to make of Mark in this role. All she knows that this isn't about her. Nor is it about Mark. Sherlock—knowing Mycroft and her surveillance—might already be—most probably is—on his way right now. And she has to end this before it all goes downhill. Before Sherlock comes barging through the door. And if Mark has decided to be in the way of her mission, she will deal with him accordingly. There isn't time left for his games anymore. She needs to pick a side just as she needed to when Mark shot Sherlock. At the latter’s insistence, she attempted forgiveness and succeeded—somewhat—at that. That was a mistake she will regret for as long as she lives. She will not let Mark blind her to reality.

     She still remembers Sherlock through recuperation. She couldn’t meet his eyes, so ashamed she was. Of course she felt personally responsible for what her husband did to her best friend. She had stayed at 221B, taken leave from work and helped Sherlock. He had been rendered so useless, so weak that he hadn’t been able to walk a mere few steps without her support. His pain and helplessness had been her torture even though he tried not to let her see. She doesn’t know why he tried to make it easier on her.

     She remembers the sound of his voice, gravelly with pain as it was but she didn’t realize, on the phone when he demanded she come to Lauriston Gardens. She remembers the proximity, the strangely warm touch of his cool fingers when he adjusted her coat collar, tucked her hair back. That characteristic slowness to all his actions, that tight press of his lips should have rung an alarm bell inside her mind but she was too distracted—no—too selfish, too involved in her own problems to see that her friend was dying from internal bleeding.

   _“Ma’am?”_

_She feels numb all over. Numb on the inside and outside, over her skin. Her ears are ringing and her heart hasn’t stopped. It’s only going faster._

_She knows that look on the doctor’s face all too well._

_Because even her face has settled into the lines of that expression on the battlefield._

     Please God, let him live.

     And the Lord had heard her prayer only to drag him to the brink and bring him back again.

     Not this time.

     She squares her shoulders, and turns to Moran. “Shoot me if you want,” she mutters. Then she attacks.

     In the split second that she places a hand on Moran’s shoulder after taking three long strides in her direction, the woman takes her by surprise. Before she can make another sound, Moran has her by her neck in a chokehold.

     What makes her breath catch isn’t the arm pressing against her throat, breaking off her air supply.

     It’s Sherlock standing by the door, SIG aimed at Mark but his eyes, wild eyes, murderous eyes, focused on Moran.

     Joan knows she should be creating a distraction, to get Sherlock away from the spotlight but she doesn’t know how. He looks disheveled without his usual armour of suit, coat and scarf. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up till his elbows as if he’s about to sit down in front of the microscope at the kitchen table and continue experimenting like he used to on those long nights. His eyes look manic, restless, as they flit between Mark and Moran. His hair is in disarray. Did he run his hands through it on his way here? Was he worried? She wonders idly.

     The air is all but a trickle now and Joan can feel the lack of oxygen taking effect already. She’s glad that the control she has over her body has kept her from wasting energy in flailing. From the corner of her eyes, she can see Mark who is focused intently on the gun in Sherlock’s hands, their steadiness. She eyes the gun pointed at her in Mark’s hands and looks back at Sherlock, ready to plead that he get out of here right this instant so that she can deal with her two enemies one at a time with relief in the knowledge that he is safe and sound.

     And then Sherlock’s eyes drop to hers and she feels her heart jump to her throat. She knows he can see it, thinks he can feel her dizziness, too. She shakes her head, a minute movement because she doesn’t have energy for anything more, but he catches the imperceptible action and she watches rage flare up in his eyes.

     “I’d prefer you drop that gun,” Moran says and Joan can breathe a little more. “Sherlock Holmes.” She enunciates the words, his name, as if it’s a delicacy to be relished. The pleasure in her voice grates on Joan's eardrums.

     The sharp, desperate whimper is cut off along with air when Moran jerks her arm tighter across Joan’s throat. Sherlock simply shifts aim, pointing the gun straight at Moran’s head.

     “Release her.” His voice is tight, controlled.

     Joan feels fear spike up her spine when Mark points his gun at Sherlock instead. Her lips part in protest but a mere croak comes out. The intent in Sherlock’s eyes only hardens, head tilting to the side in a challenge, as if to order his execution.

     Joan wonders why she hasn’t blacked out by now. Then she realizes that this woman is keeping her alive on purpose, like a pig for slaughter, regulating her air supply. Joan waits for her grip to ease up.

     She feels Moran chuckle before she hears it.

     “Such loyalty. It would have done wonders had you accepted Jim’s proposal.” Sherlock’s nostrils flare.

     “I asked you to release her.”

     There’s a pang in the small of her back and then she is kneeling on the ground, cool metal kissing the frail skin on her neck.

     A beat passes. Then, “The bullet from this gun will be inside your skull before his reaches me.”

     There’s simply an amused huff from Moran. “And Dr. Watson will be lying on the floor before you are dead. But we don’t want that. Let’s not forget why we are here...” She trails off suggestively.

     “I don’t know what you want from me but I am not sorry for watching Jim kill himself.” The knife tickles her skin. “That’s what you are upset about in the end, aren’t you? Hmm?” Sherlock tilts his head to the other side.

     Joan wants to ask him to shut his mouth but she’ll cut herself if her throat moves in the slightest.

     “Your best man. Not my fault. He loved my intellect far too much to give up on the Game.” He smirks. She groans mentally.

     “My entire family, Holmes. Do you know what it’s like to have yours turn to ashes?”

     “Oh, Mycroft? I really don’t mind if you get her.” His words are light but the tone suggests quiet rage. Concentration.

     Joan can’t help the hiss that escapes her gritted teeth. “I was talking about this one.” They can hear Sherlock’s sharp inhale from across the room.

     “Step. _Away_ from her.” She feels a warmth trail down her neck.

     “You are in no position to be demanding things.” Moran finally sounds angry. “Mark.”

     Joan watches with trepidation as her husband crosses the room in quick strides and hits Sherlock in the face with the butt of his gun. His whole body lurches with the force of the blow. Joan doesn’t want to look at this. She is too busy seething to wince in sympathy. Mark brings down the side of his free hand on Sherlock’s forearm and Joan watches his palm spasm and drop the gun with a thud to the floor. Mark kicks it away. Sherlock raises a hand to his nose and watches it come away crimson. He glares at Moran as he wipes the blood away with his fist, only smearing it across his cheek.

     “Kneel.”

     Sherlock obeys when the barrel meets his head. Joan glares at him but his eyes are blank, soft. _Worried_. Her brow furrows. This wasn't going as planned. They were all going to die here.

     Her mind absolutely refuses to consider Sherlock’s death. He must live.

     She fervently hopes that Mycroft deals with the other two as she sees fit once they are done here. Not for the first time, Joan is immensely thankful for Mycroft's existence.

     There’s a surprisingly gentle tug on her hair. “Up.” She carefully braces her palms on the floor before lifting herself up without jostling the blade on her throat. The skin there burns anyway.

     She is startled by a sharp, beeping sound that echoes in the room. Moran freezes too, listening intently.

     Whatever it is beeps once more, again, and then two more times before everything goes silent. The tension in the room is pulled taut in all four directions, breaths held and hearts wild before everything turns into slow chaos.

     Sherlock lurches towards her at the same time that Mark lifts his gun to point straight at her. She feels Moran jerk with a soft grunt behind her, she hears the muffled sound of metal against carpet, followed belatedly by blazing pain, a gunshot rings inside her skull and she loses her balance when a sudden weight falls upon her. And then she is falling.

 

* * *

 


	16. To My Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very, very sorry for being so late with this update. But somewhere along the way, with uni and new people, I got distracted and discouraged. I think it's the hiatus that is causing this disinterest but I am trying my very best to do justice to this story and how far along I've come with it.  
> It's nearing its end now.

* * *

 

     

     As a child, Joan had talked about death often. More than what was considered as normal. As if death wasn’t a normal part of life itself. But her casual perception towards the most feared was generally termed as morbid fascination by people who loved not minding their own business.

     And so they stared at her when she mentioned it over dinner or in the park or even at school in Biology class, where even the teacher found it strange enough to warrant a note to her parents when it exceeded a certain invisible limit of normality. They, in turn, took to calling her negative. She never paid attention to their words. Joan knew she was a realist. And in the real world, reality was what mattered. People went on by raving about positivity and how it changed their lives but the truth of the matter was that it just blinded them to what was happening right under their noses.

      Biology. The natural progression of a cell from conception till destruction.

     She had always believed that studying Biology would make the world a much better place. If only everybody studied it.

     Joan had always felt like an uninvited guest. A stranger in a family where nobody cared to understand her. And the only thing that made sense through the haze of insanity that threatened to cloud her mind was the relieving aloofness that logic and reason provided. And hence she found her place in the precise yet chaotic world of anatomy and physiology.

     Practicality of the situation was all that ever mattered to her. Everything was about cool logic and precision on the battlefield and in the operation theatre.

     As a child, Joan turned to the Science of Life because its no-nonsense certainty fascinated her. The delicate balance of life which was held in place by innumerable elements that worked in tandem at any given moment to sustain an entire being enchanted her brain.

     So it was only natural that she wished to understand—not how to cheat death, no, no such cheap parlour trick—but how to make life dance to her wishes. Imagine her joy when she found out about the job of doctors. How they meddled with the complex proceedings of a body and made it bend to their will as they pleased. How it was a tug of war, a power play between the human mind and nature and how everything either ends or begins anew when one of them loses.

     A battle of science and death. Some dreamers might like to call it a battle between science and faith. As if the decision to live or die rested solely with the person and not with the cells that seemed to have a mind of their own, not with the neurons that lost every day, not with the pulsing vessels that carried life itself. As if simple belief in a higher being would change the very fabric of their fate. But her faith only extended to the belief that the building of this entire world, suspended in time and space as it was, must have taken a higher mind, if not a human one. For how can one simply think that all of this teeming, writhing, _burning life_ came into existence on its own?

     They explain it all, yes. Joan has heard it time and time again. Evolution and progression and ecological succession. Yes, cells multiply, differentiate and very kindly, very neatly, organize themselves into tissues and then tissues into organs but _somebody_ must have designed the breathtaking framework that was so magnificent in its complexity.

     It didn’t take her long to begin wondering if she could take it to a personal level. What did she have to lose even if she were to die after all? So she joined the RAMC and wished to see if she could give life while soldiers grappled with death. It was a beautiful experiment that ended just as abruptly as it began.

     One bullet and she was invalided, with her imaginary limp, inconvenient PTSD and very real pain. But in a way, she had succeeded in that endeavour. She had managed to come out alive—if not well—from a field of war where the odds of not dying were so close to nil that they didn’t even let the person calculate the odds of not dying.

     So for a while, through the blurred edges of her mind, she secretly rejoiced in the feeling of not having _conquered_ death, but having challenged it and survived. But that could have only lasted so long. Because when she came back, the inside of her head was the haunt of nightmares and terrors that the war had gifted her. She had thought that death was nothing new to her desensitized mind but then she became a witness to its cause as it happened live. She had thought she had nothing to lose but she had never factored in comrades, her sisters and brothers-in-arms. And so they left her with the constant feeling of being lost and unwanted. No. Not unwanted. Not _needed_.

     What was her purpose behind existing still? If she wasn’t working towards anything, if she wasn’t working for anyone, if she was basically doing _nothing_ but nothing, then what was the point of her staying alive?

     And so, when she stumbled across the only Consulting Detective in the world, having lost all drive for life that she once respected and admired so, a silly thought crossed her mind. That perhaps, he was the brilliant being that her whole life had been designed for. That he was a mere example—a taste, a sample—of the one she believed in. She couldn’t help but think that they were meant to cross paths. For if she had not decided to pursue medicine, she would have never become acquainted with Stamford and then could have never been fortunate—unfortunate—enough to have Sherlock Holmes barge into her life and take over not unlike a cancer cell.

     His brilliance astounded her. He could take complexities and simplify them, lay them out and explain them for all to see with such ease that she wondered if his mind could be capable of _creating_ complexity. She was only an observer, a reader or a viewer who gained knowledge from her study material. Him, on the other hand? He _made_ an entire study out of people and their pointless behaviours and ticks and quirks.

     "You were out of it only for a few hours," a cool voice interrupts her musings and she takes in the private hospital ward again, along with the familiar face standing in it.

     “How many?”

     “Does it matter? I am to take you home.”

     She stays quiet at Anthea’s words because she'll see Sherlock soon. And all her questions will be answered.

     "Alright,” she agrees.

     And so, she is discharged after a couple of days of staying under observation. Anthea clicks away on her phone as Joan looks out the window of their car. She turns to look at Anthea once they stop and after a few seconds of steady staring, the woman finally looks up. Joan simply raises her eyebrows with a nod towards the window.

     They aren’t at Baker Street. It’s her house.

     Anthea sighs. "I told him you wouldn't listen."

      At those words, something within her falters and shudders to a halt. _Sherlock_ wanted her out of 221 B?

      So, she stands in the living room of his flat, hands crossed and stance tense as she looks around aimlessly. Sherlock isn't here. Yet. Even when she does see him, she doesn't know what she'll say. The key Anthea handed over to her lies cold in her palm. She slips it into her jacket pocket.

     Her eyes fall upon the mirror over the fireplace and she walks to it slowly, eyes roving over the polished surface. Mrs. Hudson has been here. She sighs and a memory flashes through her mind.

     She remembers the way Sherlock had looked at her when she was straightening her suit standing right in front of that mirror. The look had been bold and direct as always, obvious and easy to question. Yet she pretended as if she hadn't noticed. She still doesn't understand why she didn't return the look. She wonders what he would have said had she met his eyes in the reflection. It had been the day of the trial.

     Tensions had been running high and she had been strung taut with worry and doubt. Sherlock had been quieter than usual through the whole ordeal. Joan, on the other hand, had been trying to control her fear the entire time

     _“Not guilty. They found him_ not guilty _.”_

     _“Are you listening? He’s out. You_ know _he’ll be coming after you.”_

      Her heart thunders in her chest at the mere memory of the thought of Moriarty and Sherlock in the same room. She had felt so helpless then, sitting in the cab, asking the cabbie to hurry and swearing that she would—that she would do something, anything, if Sherlock came away from that encounter alive. When she finally ran into flat, Sherlock had been sitting in the same position she had left him, laid back and face serene. She swallows when she remembers the feeling that had come over her. She had wanted to check him for injuries, take his pulse, and run her hands over his face just for the sake of touching him. But she had only stood with her fists flexing by her side and her eyes drinking in the sight of him safe and sound.

     She turns at the sound of footsteps coming to a halt and finds Sherlock standing frozen by the door. She senses that feeling flood her once again and this time, she wants to give into it.

     An entire minute passes where they just regard each other quietly, neither of them knowing what to say. She purses her lips then parts them, silent all the while. What on earth was she supposed to say to him after—after _everything?_

She is scared to think that he can deduce her train of thought right down to the expression her face is currently displaying.

“You weren’t at the hospital,” she finally provides by way of explanation for her presence there.

     “Family only,” he says by way of justification and closes the distance between them in swift strides.

     The urge to step back at his sudden proximity is strong but she resists and stays rooted, chin raised to look him in the eye.

     His explanation seems so simple all of a sudden. And yet, it is highly inadequate to quench her doubts. Hospital rules have never stopped him before. He has been known to barge into rooms and lie to the face of authority.

     Why not now?

     The silence is suffocating and their closeness is only worsening it, infusing awkwardness in the air—or perhaps it’s only her imagination. So she stiffly pats his arm twice and maybe that is what breaks him—not that Sherlock Holmes ever breaks, really, but that’s what it seems like—because he grips her shoulder tightly, fingers digging in and pressing hard.

     She grunts because it’s her left shoulder and his eyes widen and arm drops to the side.

     “Sorry,” he mutters, as if he had really forgotten about her injury. She gives him a bemused look.

     “Oh, Joan!”

     Joan startles at Mrs. Hudson’s gasp and stumbles away from him, which effectively gives her a little space to breathe. She watches her struggle with a kettle and a plate full of scones and rushes to help, relieving Mrs. Hudson of the beverage with a smile.

     “Oh come here, dear,” she sighs and raises her arms to hold Joan by the shoulders once they have deposited the food onto the surprisingly clear kitchen table. “I came to visit you, you know? But they simply wouldn’t let me. They kept saying I wasn’t your family!” She tuts and shakes her head with wide, concerned eyes.

      Mrs. Hudson gently pushes her into a chair and draws another one in front of her, taking a seat.

     Bewildered, Joan glances at Sherlock’s way, only to find him busy with his phone, standing all the way at the window in the living room. She blinks and looks back at Mrs. Hudson, licking her lips in mild apprehension. If Sherlock had felt the need to give them privacy, this woman must mean business.

     And she does mean business, because in the very next moment, she comes straight to the point.

     “When are you going to be honest with him, Joan? It’s been far too long for you two.” Her voice is chastising, lowered roughly in a whisper.

     “Now, he may not feel the same way about you but, that does not mean that he is less deserving of your love.”

     Joan swallows, blinking hard. “Mrs. Hudson—”

     “No. I do not want to hear it. Do you know how he spent the days in your absence?”

     “Sulking because nobody could get him tea?” Joan mutters, surprising herself and Mrs. Hudson with an edge of bitterness to her words.

     “Don’t be ridiculous!” She scolds, taking Joan’s words as a personal offence. To her, it probably was. Sherlock was her son for all intents and purposes.

     “Oh, he was _so_ scared,” she breathes, her face lined with worry. “He never stayed in the flat. Once, I heard the front door open at _4 AM_!”

      “I—Mrs. Hudson—I can’t just—”

     “And why _not?”_ She asks, her eyes stern. Joan reads into her tone, knowing it to be the end of conversation and glances down at her lap. The door closes softly after their—Sherlock’s—landlady and she sighs, swallowing down the anxiety that is slowly building up within her.

     She looks at Sherlock to find him already staring at her from across the lounge.

     “Well...” She purses her lips and shrugs. “Let’s eat.”

 

* * *

 

      “Ahem—so...” She harrumphs, not knowing how to even begin to ask the string of questions she has readied in her mind.

     They are sitting across from each other at the table with a couple of plates full of edible bits she could scrounge up from the kitchen cabinets and Mrs. Hudson’s treats. She is sure the landlady stocks Sherlock's kitchen regularly. She feels a pang of worry about his health but then it hits her that she doesn't take care of him anymore. What's the use of worrying?

     “Shot dead. Two bullets—skull and heart.”

     His answer surprises her but she should know better by now. He has always been able to read her like a book. Like one of his criminals.

     “Ah,” she breathes, not knowing how else to respond to the news. She feels a strange combination of grimness and satisfaction. “Mycroft?”

     “Obviously. Sniper on the roof of the building across from ours.”

     Joan looks hastily at the plate to keep Sherlock from realizing his mistake. He referred to the building as _theirs._ She feels at home again.

     The silence that follows is prolonged while both of them focus on eating and sipping on the tea Mrs. Hudson had so considerately made for them.

     “And Mark?” She finally asks, meeting his eyes.

     Sherlock is silent for a moment before he responds. “Did he contact you?”

     Joan presses her lips together and unlocks her phone, opening it up to the text before passing it over to Sherlock.

     His fingers brush just the tips of hers and a jolt passes through her. She withdraws her hand slowly and curls it under the table. Her yearning for him has grown stronger than she realized.

From:

Mark

_I love you._

_Don’t you dare doubt it._

_03:47_

     Sherlock blinks once and inhales. “He is gone.”

     “Gone,” she breathes.

     “Mycroft decided to involve the police. Mark’s situation would have been rather difficult to explain, don’t you think?” He snips out the ‘k’.

     “So...what? He just disappeared?”

     “Yes. I helped.”

     “Oh, but of course. Sherlock Holmes. To the rescue,” she drops her spoon, the clink of steel against ceramic loud in the room. “You know what?” She exhales. “You two should have gotten married instead.” A corner of her lips lifts in mockery.

     He blinks. Then his brows furrow. “I thought you would be...glad to know of his safety.”

     Her jaw works, her own confusion over her reaction bothering her.

     “I don’t understand. Why you would do something like that. Or did you delete everything that happened?”

     Just like Sherlock Holmes. Someone shoots him and he saves their life. Helps them hide from the British Government.

     “Moran demanded Mark’s presence,” Sherlock said, placing his spoon by the plate.

     Joan read the words ‘threatened’ and ‘coerced’ in the set of his mouth.

     “Mark believed that pretence would work in his favour instead of resistance. He complied, knowing he would be in possession of a weapon and hence, would have the advantage.”

     Joan huffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “And let me guess. You knew the moment you set eyes on him that he was on our side.”

     “And you didn’t,” he tilts his head, a question in the movement and not in the lilt of his words.

     “After what I had only recently found out, you can hardly blame me for believing that his master plan was finally coming together and all he had to do is help a madwoman put a bullet through my brain.”

     A corner of Sherlock’s lips lifts up in a humourless half-smile. The movement draws her eyes. She tries not to let them linger.

     “It was an act. You needn’t have worried.”

     “How’s your nose?” She asks, nonchalantly.

     He smirks.

     She squirms.

     “She called Moriarty and Mark her children...” She trails off, the question clear. She has a vague idea of what Moran had meant to say. But she wants to hear Sherlock’s opinion, his knowledge of her husband’s past.

     Sherlock, as ever, hears the unspoken question.

     “Mark was an orphan. Moran prevented his plunge into poverty, sickness and eventual death by taking him in, so to say. And crime always pays the needy even if justice might not.”

     Joan inhales slowly, trying not to think of how Mark’s future might have been. She doesn’t know if she is grateful towards the psycho that had been standing in this very flat just a few days ago.

     Then again, perhaps she should be.

     “Either ways, the age difference between them wasn’t large enough to call him her son.”

     She appreciates the effort at levity. But it doesn’t work.

     How many such criminals are born every day?

     Simply out of desperation.

     Soo Lin’s blank, unfocused gaze flashes before her eyes.

     Joan doesn’t know what to say anymore and the silence bears down on her eardrums like tunnel pressure.

     Mark was gone and Sherlock was here.

     She looks up to find the latter’s gaze fall to the table.

     Joan stands up, chair scraping against the floor and takes her plate to the sink.

     “She wanted to die, didn’t she?” She mutters just to break the silence. At Sherlock’s inquiring hum, she continues, “Moran wasn’t stupid. Yet she stood right by the window and brought Mark into the picture even when she knew that he was a potential liability.”

     “You observed.”

     Joan glares at him but he isn’t looking at her, eyes still strangely focused downwards.

     “I am known to do so on occasion,” she mumbles.

     “Joan, there is no point in continuing like this,” he says without preamble but Joan knows she won’t like what’s coming. Anthea taking her to her house was a bad sign in the first place.

     She slowly turns off the tap, puts the plate aside and wipes her hand on the towel.

     “I think it is best if we part ways,” he says, meeting her eyes at last.

     “You really think so?”she asks, faking incredulity. Her tone is mocking, sarcastic. She can tell that he is serious. His face is in its usual impassive mask. She wonders about the last time she saw him grin.

     She longs for it a little.

     “It will be worth the life saved.” She wants to laugh at that. Sherlock had faked his death for her. She knows he can cut her off if he wants to. Act as if none of this, none of _them_ ever happened. She won’t have it.

     Her mind scrambles to find a way to convince him to stay.

     “And what’s the point of having a life without someone to risk it for,” she throws the towel back on the countertop.

     “What do you mean?” Lines appear between his eyebrows.

     “You can be so dense sometimes,” she smiles. Then it falls off her face as she says, “Don’t be daft. You know exactly what I mean.”

     “No. I do not,” he says and Joan feels irritated at his denial. She walks to him, leaning over his seated form. She feels pleased when he cranes his neck a little.

     “Don’t you?” She asks softly.

     He simply stares at her, his gaze steady and challenging.   

     The silence that seeps between them is laid thick with emotion, with insinuation.

     She tracks the movement of his throat as it bobs with a swallow and looks up sharply at his eyes.

     “What will you do then? Stop talking to me?” She asks.

     He is silent.                                                            

     “And what if I don’t? What if I come live here? What would you do then?” She searches his eyes, thinks back to the time when he wished for her to move to 221B forever and knows that he remembers it, too.

     “I will put a restraining order on you.” Each word is carefully enunciated, as if he is trying to convince someone who doesn’t believe he is capable of such an action. As if he is trying to convince himself.

     “You’d do that...wouldn’t you? Knowing you, you’d also involve the media in the charade. Mycroft will be happy as ever to do as you want.”

     That makes his lips press together and she feels a little pleasure but it’s eclipsed by the slow panic building inside her. He isn’t making a fool out of her. He has thought this through in the time that she was in the hospital. He is ready to alienate her, to pretend as if she never existed in a twisted effort at keeping her safe.

     “You think it’ll work?” She laughs in a sharp, resentful huff. “Nothing will fool your enemies into thinking that I don’t matter to you. This won’t change the fact that I’ll always be your pressure point.”

     His eyes flash dangerously but he doesn’t say a word.

     She doesn’t know why she suddenly wants to keep Sherlock with her. She had tried to get rid of him, succeeded somewhat, only to be dragged back into the mess by Mycroft. But now, it seems like if he shuns her, that’ll be her breaking point. Mark’s absence and what it might mean to her still hasn’t hit her. That night, when she is all by herself, it _will_ , she knows. But maybe she won’t be able to take it if it’s coupled with another loss.

     She wants to tell Sherlock how stupid he is, how this would never work. But she knows that it won’t change his mind. She wants to shake some sense into him like always and she almost does, her hand fisting the hair at the nape of his neck, making his eyes harden.

     “Don’t do this, Sherlock,” she growls, her breaths coming out sharp and audible now. Laboured.

     “I have—” She doesn’t let him finish.

     She has been quiet for too long, saying everything but what she should have. And yes, she was afraid, and she still is in the moment she covers his lips with her own, but she thinks that this could be the only thing that convinces him to stay. She hasn’t been completely honest with him, but with the way he reads her mind all the time, she thought she had the right to keep this one little secret.

     Not anymore.

     She pulls back, breaths mingling with his, fingers still entwined with the satin strands of his hair. She raises her eyes from moist lips to stormy eyes, their pupils blown in obvious shock. And then the fear sets in.

     Joan steps back, releasing the grip on his neck. The silence is so loud that she can hear his stuttering breaths. She really surprised him. Her hand flies to her forehead, fingernails scraping skin.

     Her lips part but not a sound leaves them and she flounders, knowing that she has nothing left to say. That was her final attempt at salvaging the remains of their pathetically frail relationship.

     But maybe she failed altogether.

 

* * *

 


	17. (You Showed Up) Just In Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated! I updated! I updated! Ayyyyy!  
> Psst, there's also a companion piece for this.

* * *

 

_Soft. Warm. Close._

_So **close**._

     The door clicks open.

     “Last patient of the day,” the man announces. Another woman ducks in behind him.

     “Thanks, Joan. I owe you one.”

     Joan raises her lips in a quick smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

     Like always.

     The door shuts after them.

     She inhales deeply and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, patting them over her face.

     A finger strays on her lip in remembrance. She blinks hard to clear her head.

     A golden glint catches her eye and she holds her hand a little away from her face, palm facing downwards.

     The ring feels heavy on her finger.

     She had resolved to never take it off. A reminder of what she lost and maybe what she almost gained.

     She hears footsteps coming closer.

_One. Two._

     She raises her head and puts on a smile.

_Three._

     “Good evening.”

 

* * *

 

     The slamming of the car door sounds loud in the night.

     She narrows her eyes at the faint barking and spots a pug running towards her from the path that leads to her house.

     "Hello there. Are you lost? Hmm?” She leans down carefully, a hand reaching out slowly to graze its head with fingertips. Its eyes tell her that the animal is a mere pup. She doesn't know how. The dog is inquisitive and endearing.

     "It only responds to Gladstone."

     The hand spasms as the pug buts its head into it.

     "Sherlock."

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

     "I know. It's a horrendous name."

 _Repeat_.

     "Says the man named Sherlock,” she is amused despite herself. It doesn’t show when she rises to meet his eyes.

     "You don't like my name?"

     Brow furrowed. Lips pinched.

_Don’t stare._

     "I didn't say that.”

     They take a beat to take in the sight of the other.

     The streetlamp flickers. There’s not much to see in near darkness.

     “Come on boy,” she wags her fingers and walks ahead, not caring to see which one follows.

     Unsurprisingly, when she flicks on the lights and turns around, both man and pup are standing on the doorstep rather hesitantly. They look utterly out of place.

     She drops her bag on the sofa and walks into the kitchen, hearing the quick patter of tetrapod footsteps.

     Opening the refrigerator, she takes out the plate of leftover chicken she was going to have for dinner and places it by the corner of the counter where it is promptly paid deserving attention.

     She has lost her appetite anyways.

     She walks out to find Sherlock still frozen at the doorstep.

     “Don’t let the cold in,” is the only thing she says before pouring herself a drink from the tumbler that sits by the sofa, always awaiting her presence.

     She hears the door close.

     She takes the first sip, closing her eyes and quietly relishing the feeling of warm alcohol before eyeing Sherlock.

     Then she catches his eye, holds his gaze and looks slowly, purposefully at the sofa.

     She is braced for whatever is to come.

     Why did he even have to come talk about it in person? His silence had been answer enough.

     He walks slowly towards the sofa, towards her and then waits as if for further instruction.

     “Hmm,” she grunts, placing the drink back on the table before raising her hands to his shoulders. He shoves his hands in his pockets and seems to hunch into his coat, tightening its form around his torso.

     She shrugs, a little miffed and picks the drink back up again.

     He will feel too warm with that coat on soon enough.

     Sherlock eyes the progress of the glass from the table to her lips with a familiar intensity. And then he looks at her as if he has one too many deductions just waiting to escape his lips.

     Because she is now eyeing his lips, she notices his jaw lock and imagines the sound of his teeth grinding.

     Interesting. Sherlock is not the one to get angry easily. He prefers indifference over emotion, after all.

     Instances of his anger have been few.

     He was angry when he hit the American with the butt of the gun to save The Woman.

     He was angrier when he tried to make her see how Moriarty was getting inside her head.

     It’s odd to see him angry _now_ of all times.

     It’s odder to see him try to control it.

     She stares at him steadily as she takes a gulp of the drink this time and watches his eyes narrow.

     “Well?”

     “You are not an alcoholic.”

     “No. But I am certainly trying to become one,” she mutters under her breath and raises the glass to her lips again.

     Did she just hear Sherlock _sigh?_

     “Why are you here?”

     “To see you.”

     “To see me,” she repeats absently, placing the drink on the table. It was getting warmer.

     “Yes.”

     She takes off her jacket and drops it on the arm of the sofa, moving her fingers to the cuff.

     She inhales, lets her arm fall and then starts again, “I’m sorry,” she cants her head a little and frowns, “What?”

     Sherlock simply looks at her and she stares back. He is too tall for the sofa. His long legs seem to nudge uncomfortably against the oblong coffee table and his arms sit limp in his lap. Mark always relaxed on the same sofa, his ankles crossed and his arm on the back of the sofa, behind her back. Then he would lean in to kiss her cheek.

     “You heard me.”

     “Yes. But I don’t know if I heard right. Sherlock—“ she pauses, inhales sharply and turns around, rubbing a hand over her face.

     “It’s been over three weeks. I thought—“

     “Thought what?”

     She crosses her arms and turns to face him.

     “That you didn’t want to see me again.”

     "Why wouldn't I want to see you?"

     "You know why."

     "No I don't," His answer comes out like a quick retort.

     She tilts her head to the side, nostrils flaring.

     "Have you so easily deleted it or should I provide a demonstration?"

     His chin juts out at that, a swallow slowly moving down his throat and a soft flush rises up his neck, diffusing the smooth paleness of his cheeks with warm, tempting colour.

     His eyes narrow and he enunciates a soft, chagrined 'no'.

     It’s enticing, his blush, and she barely restrains herself from wishing she could make him look that way again. Even this faint pink doesn’t come close to the way he looked _that_ day.

     “Talk. Whatever it is that you came to say—say it. Just say it and leave.”

     His eyes widen fractionally at the harshness of her words. He looks at the floor and then both of them shift to look at Gladstone who has just trotted out of the kitchen.

     He now begins to sniff the furniture, familiarizing himself with the house while Sherlock familiarizes himself with the flooring.

     "I needed her help,” he says, head bowed.

     "What?"

     "You kept wondering why I didn't rebel against her orders. I needed Mycroft's help."

     She wonders how it matters anymore.

     "I wished...to reconcile."

     Her lips part and then close in silence.

     Joan feels warmth suffuse her chest, something she hasn't felt in a long time.

     Sherlock refuses to meet her gaze as he speaks.

     "Mycroft is good at dealing with people. She understands emotions and the psychology behind it."

     "Better than you do?"

     Sherlock looks up at the gruffness of her voice.

     "When it's not relevant to murders. She offered to help. Her only condition was that I never refuse whatever she asks of me. Otherwise, she would not assist me.”

     “I...couldn't say no.”

     His eyes are downcast when he speaks, his expression a little troubled. She wants to go and place a hand on his cheek, make him meet her eyes. But she thinks, for some reason, that it might scare him.

     “How does it matter?” She wonders out loud this time.

     “Excuse me?”

     “How does it matter now? Why would you tell me this now? It’s clearly not what you came here to talk about. Hmm?”

     Sherlock’s expression morphs into something unnameable for a moment before it smoothes over.

     “Gladstone needs to be taken care of.”

     Joan exhales through her lips sharply, shocked senseless.

_“We have suggested taking care of a young life to strengthen bonds. But only to those who are ready to do it for life.”_

     She helplessly looks towards the pup walking about her living room, intrigued about every other surface and its smell, as Thompson’s words echo in her mind.

_“Since you two aren’t married, I’d suggest you consider...pets.”_

     She looks up at Sherlock with the same gobsmacked expression, wondering if she was imagining things.

     She finally finds her voice.

     “What about what I did?”

     “What about it?”

     “You—”

     He raises a hand as a placating gesture before she begins hurling expletives at him.

     “Your—ah” he coughs delicately into his fist, “Your expression of attraction did not make me uncomfortable—so to speak.”

     The expression currently gracing his features is something to be laughed at, something to make fun of. And she wants to do it but anger sidetracks the affection she feels at his discomfort while talking about physical intimacy out loud.

     "Uncomfortable!” She murmurs to herself, rather offended at his choice of words. “Are you just dense or in denial, Sherlock?" She directs it at him, louder this time, walking to loom over him.

     " _Excuse_ me?" He looks straight at her and has the gall to look affronted.

     "You think I would take a risk with whatever little we have left between us just to fulfil my attraction towards you?"

     Yes. She is a tad bit hysterical now.

     Her fingers itch to grab his shoulders but she doesn’t want to recreate the scene at the dining table so she digs her nails into her palms instead.

     "Joan—”

     "No,” she steps away from him and then takes a few more steps back. Distance was the best precaution. “You need to see. For once, Sherlock, stop observing so hard!"

She jabs her index finger at him, "On the train, you made me believe I was in my _last_ moments just to get me to forgive you. You needn't have gone to such lengths. It's _you_ , Sherlock.”

     She feels drained now, all of this emotional jabber taxing her. But she couldn’t stop just yet. She had to bring crystal clarity to his mind once and for all.

     “It took me your—you jumping off a rooftop to realize to what extent you mattered to me."

She doesn’t look at his face. Doesn’t want to. Cannot.

 _"_ _And have you told him that?”_

_"What? Sherlock you’re the only thing I am alive for, did ya know that?"_

_“Yes.”_

      It seemed like Thompson’s voice was turning into a permanent fixture in her very own mental asylum. She must remember to take that trash out, she thinks.

     She remembers the way Mark had embraced her when she had almost lost Sherlock again at the hospital. Remembers the overwhelming, hysterics-inducing relief wash over her when she learnt of the latter’s safety.

     An old memory, their first meeting, flashes in front of her eyes and she chuckles. At the time, anybody would have thought Sherlock was hitting on them. But that wink was only an experiment in seeing whether such socially accepted gestures pacified the person he talked to, whether it made him seem more likable to them. It didn't work in the slightest, only furthering the eccentricity of his character. Either ways, he shouldn't have worried about being likable in front of her. She was gone the very moment she took a life for him. To stop him from ending his own. She still feels guilty, for killing Jefferson Hope had been an unnecessary act. But she couldn't have stopped Sherlock any other way. Couldn't have stopped the progress of the pill to his lips. And when the shot rang out, sense had flooded back in, making sure she knew how absolutely stupid Sherlock himself was.

     She thinks of the only way Sherlock might understand.

     Her shoulders sag, not in defeat, but in the relief they feel as if a great burden has been lifted.

_Finally. It’s time._

     “I am on the losing side, Sherlock. I lost to you.”

     She finally locks eyes with him. “Meeting Moran? I was...highly motivated. You were right.”

     “It _is_ a dangerous disadvantage,” she smiles without any humour.

     He seems to have frozen once again. She manages to take him by surprise with simple, explicable emotions every time. She once felt pleasure in doing so. But not today.

     She shifts her weight from one foot to the other as she waits for him to process and respond.

     He blinks a little. Actually, he blinks a lot and then stares even longer.

     “Are you...do you understand what I am saying?”

     He doesn’t respond to that, so she waits some more. Sherlock is _quite literally_ speechless. Perhaps he does understand her words, then.

     She feels some relief but the uncharacteristic look of shock on his face is a tad bit difficult to handle.

     It is so... _not_ Sherlock that she finally says, “It’s getting a bit scary now.”

     “Is this...” He begins and she nods expectantly.

     “A joke?” Joan almost flinches at the offense in his voice.

     “I am going to wait for you to explain yourself,” she enunciates slowly, crossing her arms.

     Out of all the responses she imagined, this one had never once crossed her mind.

     “Are we really going to _ignore_ Mark’s very existence here?” He asks, fingers twitching as they gesture at thin air. But just as she is about to speak, he interrupts, “You _married_ him.”

     “And who says I can’t love you both?”  She counters, canting her head. It is a challenge to engage.

     Sherlock’s lips are pressed tightly together and that line between his eyebrows has come back.

     “It’s called moving on,” she says, shaking her head. Having to explain this to him, it was just another day in the life of Joan Watson.

     “And you _didn’t?_ ” There is as much disbelief in his voice as there was when he had said her name at The Pool. Too breathy, as if the words refused to morph into sounds. And too hesitant, as if he didn’t want to say them at all.

     She swallows at that and closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.

     “Could I have?” She asks him, eyeing the floor. It is a genuine question, with real curiosity.

     Does he honestly believe he is someone that people can just _get_ over like that?  _For God's sake even criminals cannot stop obsessing over him._

     “You...It was not easy when you were gone. _That_ is when it hit me. But it was even more difficult when you came back.”

     She looks up at him and smiles in resignation, “So difficult that Mark saw it, too.”

     Joan knows that Sherlock will doubt anything and everything before proving something to be either right or wrong. He doesn’t jump to conclusions, he doesn’t guess and never assumes. But even with this knowledge, his scepticism about _her_ _feelings,_ his disbelief at her sincerity makes her ache.

     She tries to explain it one last time.

     “You have your cocaine, Sherlock. I...have mine,” she shrugs.

     This time, he looks as if he really comprehends. She cannot believe she just compared him to a drug, but she would be lying by omission if she didn’t.

     After all, she has been suffering from withdrawal symptoms this entire time.

     “It’s...fine.”

_Oh of all the responses—_

     “Of course it’s fine!” She exclaims indignantly. “Feelings cannot be controlled. They just—happen,” she waves a hand, punctuating her rather eloquent statement.

     “Joan.”

     She swallows, her throat suddenly dry, as he locks eyes with her.

     “Come back home,” he says.

     She huffs once, trying not to show the effect a lower register of his voice has on her and shakes her head.

     She only realizes how tender his expression was when it turns grim.

     “I was of the belief that you _wanted_ to stay. Why the sudden change of mind?”

     She just continues shaking her head silently.

_Soon enough you’ll use this against me, too._

     “After all,” he begins slowly and she looks up.

     “Isn’t that why you kissed me?”

     And there it is: the unmistakable hitch. Not at the verb, no. He is no stranger to the workings of lovers. But his voice wavers, falters for a mere second at the pronoun.

     Even after all this time, no matter what she says or does, he will always be surprised if it is for the sake of him.

_From what you've told me about him, he is familiar enough with negative emotions such as anger. But other positive ones such as kindness and empathy—especially when directed towards him—baffle him._

     You can add genuine physical affection to that list, she thinks.

     “You want to know the truth, Sherlock? I don’t know why I did it. I knew you don’t reciprocate. You just don’t—yeah you don’t see me that way.” She looks towards him once and then shrugs, watching Gladstone.

     “Joan, I—”

     “No,” she holds up a finger. “I know you’re capable. I do.”

     She knows she has rendered him mute. He was about to deny actually feeling that way, but she knew better. She always does. After all, The Woman was just a trial of his _potential_ to love.

 _Bet you never saw_ this _coming._

     “You are my best friend. And I’m not sorry that you mean much more to me than that. I don’t expect the same from you. But don’t expect _me_ to go along with your mood swings on whether you really want me by your side.”

     “Will you let me speak?” He sounds mildly irked. So, she gestures for him to continue.

     “I had forgotten the feeling of your absence.” His nose is wrinkled, lips curled in a grimace.

     Joan is aware she is gaping a little, but she can’t help it at all at this point.

     If not being able to talk about feelings were a competition, Sherlock would put up a tough fight, she thinks.

     “And I have found it rather difficult to ensure the safety of an individual not in my field of vision,” he blinks and frowns, as if berating himself internally at such a blunder.

     “You were right,” he murmurs and holds her gaze. “No matter how hard I attempt to dissociate your existence from mine, nothing will fool my enemies into thinking that you do not matter to me.”

_This won’t change the fact that I’ll always be your pressure point._

     Those captivating eyes tug at her heartstrings, apologetic in their intensity.

     “Your silence further reminded me that I was in control of the situation. That you thought—possibly—that I would be unwilling to continue our acquaintance at this juncture.”

     Distantly, she wonders if these are [practiced](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7043665) lines.

     He purses his lips, glancing at his feet before looking sideways.

     “Gladstone is...an incen—promise,” he swallows.

     She had been waiting for him to voice the explanation of the pup, but the word incentive made her hackles rise. As if she needed one when it came to Sherlock.

     His revised statement was much better though.

     “He is a promise,” he squared his shoulders. “If you’ll have me.”

     Her eyes flash in recognition at his words. They were the same ones she had said to Mark.

_Is he repeating them? Or are they his own?_

     “And you aren’t...you don’t care that I—invaded your personal space?” She closes her eyes in pained acceptance of how rottenly evasive her words sounded.

     “I wasn’t averse to it,” he shrugs nonchalantly. Or at least he tries to.

     Joan mutters, “Averse” under her breath.

     “Oh, so you don’t mind if I do it again?” She chuckles at the look of alarm that enters his eyes.

     “Just friends don’t kiss each other, Sherlock,” she says, as if she were just adding another fact about social niceties to his ever-growing textbook.

     Try as she might, she cannot help the fond smile that stretches her lips.

     “Oh?” He asks, his lips curving in response.

     “No,” she utters softly, shaking her head.

      Gladstone patters up to her feet and begins to butt his head gently against her foot. She leans down and picks him up carefully, looking into his wide, glistening eyes.

     “It doesn’t bother you at all?” She asks, glancing at Sherlock over Gladstone’s head.

     “What?”

     Joan shakes her head and gives a gusty sigh. Gladstone bumps his nose against Joan’s.

     What a _persuasive_ choice of an incentive, Joan thinks, cradling the pup’s body against her chest.

     “I am not selling this house though. Consider it an investment.”

     “I never said you should,” Sherlock says, relaxing visibly right in front of her eyes.

     “You promise?” She asks, just because. Confirmation doesn’t hurt.

     She hopes he won’t ask for clarification of her words. She means absolutely everything by that single word. Promise.

     Sherlock looks at her with a steady gaze before murmuring a final-sounding ‘yes’.

     Joan believes him.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think all the apologies in the world won't be enough for being this late. I needed time to resolve the ending. Exams and college and moving back took a toll on me and when I finally relaxed into holidays, the words came naturally.  
> I have taken some liberties here. Finally get to use the artistic license everybody talks about! I've based the dog on the pet from the first Sherlock Holmes movie starring RDJ & Jude Law, but I thought a pug would be cuter. Picture the Lo-sze. And I am aware that JW in BBC Sherlock is thought to be a vegetarian but here I didn't choose that.  
> I really am sorry it took me this long to get to it. I love writing even if it might not seem like that. This is for all of you who have been waiting for so long. Thank you.


	18. This Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it!

 

 _Your kiss, my cheek, I watched you leave_  
_Your smile, my ghost, I fell to my knees_  
_When you're young you just run_  
_But you come back to what you need_  
  
_This love is good, this love is bad_  
_This love is alive back from the dead_  
_These hands had to let it go free_  
_And this love came back to me_  
  
_This love left a permanent mark_  
_This love is glowing in the dark_  
_These hands had to let it go free_  
_And this love came back to me_

 

 

* * *

 

 

     "What are you thinking, dear?" Joan asks, unable to hold back the fond address as she ignores the book in her hand in favour of Sherlock’s sprawled form.

     His eyes snap to her and look away just as swiftly, a flush rising up his neck. He clears his throat and straightens up.

     "Am I making you nervous?" Joan asks, lips curling into a smirk. Sherlock glares.

     "Just...not used to it. I'll adapt.”

     Joan huffs, "Oh, will you now?"

     She pauses for a beat and then adds, “Well, I'll try to keep you on your toes,” punctuating her statement with a wink.

     Sherlock blinks in barely hidden alarm, blushing furiously. "I don't understand."

     "What? Terms of endearment?"

     "No,” he snaps, irritated. “You have been generous in your—services. Whereas I haven't precisely been...easy."

     Joan raises her eyebrows in surprise and amusement. "You're welcome," she chuckles.

     "And that's not what you call services. I thought we were friends."

     Sherlock looks up quickly at that, his eyes searching her face before relaxing minutely.

     "Friends do things for each other," Joan says by way of explanation.

     "Precisely what have I done for you until now that falls under that description?"

     "You made me coffee!" Joan grins, glad that the memory popped instantly in her mind.

     "With an ulterior motive to _drug_ you,” Sherlock deadpans. Well, he had a point.

     “Your trust in me borders the line of blind stupidity sometimes." He sounds truly in awe.

     "Don't push it," Joan growls under her breath. She realizes that they will never get anywhere with this line of inquiry as he seldom does anything for her without shady reasons.

     "Why do you hate it?" She asks instead.

     "Because debt-holders take advantage of the indebted."

     "And do you think I would?" She asks quietly, holding his gaze. After a prolonged silence, she sighs and tells him, "You don't owe me, Sherlock Holmes. Not one bit. Ours is a symbiotic relationship."

     She smiles at her clever analogy.

     "Be specific,” he scoffs the very next moment. “You mean to say that ours is mutualistic, like that between ruminants and gut bacteria."

     "Yes. That...is what I meant,” she frowns. “Which one of us is the cow here, again?"

     "Mutualism and symbiosis are _not_ synonymous, Joan,” he gives her a withering look.

     She mentally thanks the stars that Sherlock never chose teaching as a profession. His students would either bury themselves out of mortification or turn into criminals out of sheer frustration.

     “I say that commensalism is a more accurate term. Like that between sucker fish and sharks."

     "So... _I_ am the sucker fish?" Joan asks, squinting at him.

     "No, Joan! _I_ am the sucker fish! You are the _shark_. You are the selfless one here who asks me to hop on the bus for a ride,” he gestures with his arms. The motion looks something like muscle spasms. He really worries her sometimes.

     “Free food, too. I feed off the remnants of your kill."

     "Can we stop with the animal kingdom metaphors now?" She asks, a finger digging into the side of her forehead. Was she imagining the pain or was he really giving her a headache?

     "I was simply correcting you." She does _not_ like the look he is giving her.

     "Why are you so hell bent upon this? Can't you just take my word for it? Isn't that an advantage to you?"

     She waits for him to say something but then realization hits her like a train wreck. It really _is_ exhilarating. No wonder Sherlock loves his epiphanies.

     “You...don't like it—not having done anything for me. Is that it?”

     His narrowed eyes answer her.

 _Oh Sherlock, you have_ no _idea._

     He flops back onto the couch, back to her, curled up and head tucked between knees.

     He can’t be sulking _again?!_

     Walking to the coffee table, Joan sits on its edge and sighs in defeat. She clasps her hands, elbows resting on her thighs and leans toward the back of his head.

     "You gave me my leg back as good as new,” she begins in a soft voice. “Did something for me even before I had done anything for you. Hmm?"

     She hears his muted growl before he turns to her in one swift motion.

_Success!_

     "That was _after_ you—" he stops mid-sentence, realizing how close she is. They are eye to eye, with mere inches separating them.

     Another point in her favour. Proximity he doesn’t establish himself disconcerts him. Even if it’s only for a moment, the distraction is enough to derail him.

     "After I what?" She prompts, losing herself in the vivid colours of his eyes.

     He gulps and mumbles, "Filled in for the skull."

     She chuckles at the unexpected answer.

     “Sherlock, I didn’t think you needed to know this but it’s about time to give you some credit,” she says and straightens up.

     "After I came to London, my life itself was a nightmare."

     "I woke up with blood on my mind in the middle of the night, went for walks in the park with just my cane and began talking to myself out of sheer isolation," she chuckles.

     Sherlock’s eyes flicker towards the skull, she notices.

     "I ate out every day and lost weight steadily, made myself forget about Harry and lost my mind. I wasn't just running out of money, Sherlock. I was running out of reasons.” Her eyes fall shut at those words, at those memories.

     "And then I met Mike at the park, then you." Her lips twitch into a small smile when she looks at him. The one person who changed it all. "It was such a coincidence."

     "Coincidence?" He frowns. Joan is sure it is because of the word rather than his confusion.

     "Every morning, I woke up with a loaded gun, as I still do. But on that particular day, I woke up with...'Please God, let me live.'" She hopes he would remember. Her words on their very first case together. She had lost the will to live by then but the instinct of self-preservation got the better of her and she had set out in search of a reason.

     And God just gave her one.

     She watches his face harden as realization sets in and is glad that he remembered.

     "The evening I met you...after I went home, it was the first time I slept soundly."

     "Don't you see?" Joan sighs. Patience is a virtue, she reminded herself. And spelling everything out for Sherlock was her duty as his only friend. She tries once more.

     “You helped me. Even if you did so unknowingly.”

     "If Stamford hadn't called out to you..." He uncharacteristically trails off, turning his words into an accusation.

     "I would have made it easy for the police," Joan mutters defensively, meeting his eyes with defiance.

     "And what of the _worth_ of your life?" Sitting up, Sherlock spits the word, furious.

     Joan heaves a breath, swallows. She is shocked, startled. He was reiterating her words. She talks to the floor, her fists gripping the edge of the table.

     "Since when do you care about human life?" she asks, bluntly, teeth clenched to stop anything harsher from escaping. She wants to inflict wounds, too, sometimes. Even when she knows she shouldn’t.

     Now it's his turn to flinch.

     "Since you cared for mine.”

     Joan blinks and looks up at him, wondering if she was really having auditory hallucinations.

     "It didn't have any worth," she speaks, uncertain. "That's why I was invalided home. Because I couldn't be of help anymore. I was useless." She growls under her breath, the disgust in her tone obvious.

     "Oh, I don't know, you are of _much_ use to me," Sherlock’s lips twitch into a smirk and eyebrows rise, words laced with double entendre. Joan huffs out a surprised laugh at the misplaced innuendo.

     "Oh?" She asks, playing along.

     "According to whom?"

     Sherlock smirks at the challenge and takes it a step further, leaning in slowly until his lips are right by her ear, warm breath washing over it.

     She holds her breath.

     "Everybody," he drawls quietly, voice pitched the lowest, and her heart stutters as air leaves her body.

     And just as abruptly, Sherlock is standing tall. He nods and she shrugs, pursing her lips.

     He understands her well, fully, too, but he wasn't going to agree with her on not being the difficult one with all the benefits in their friendship. And she was going to sit back and let him try to make it up every day.

     After all, it was sure to be fun. Guilt-tripping The Great Sherlock Holmes.

     She flashes him a grin and takes his hand.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first ever completed fic is now out for the world to see & critique. This is an amazing feeling. What am I even going to do now that this is over...  
> It's time to point some things out. Some of you might have noticed, the fic &chapter titles are named after lyrics from dearest Taylor Swift's glorious 'This Love'. I wouldn't say this heart-rending song inspired it, but it did lead a majority of the storyline. Taylor's always been a guiding hand for me.  
> The therapist, Ella Thompson, has been played down in some of the fics that I have read so I decided to give her a completely different, a bit of whacko, nosy & quite the major role here. (I was gleeful just by the thought of a fem Mycroft and Thompson scheming and plotting against these two. Love it when shrewd women get together!) I've referred to her as A. T. (since they haven't named her in the show, only mentioned it in JW's blog) in dedication to a close friend of mine, Alia, who played a momentous role in an extremely rough period of my life. Her presence and help was healing, to say the least, just as Thompson's is here. (Imagine a bright, playful teenager instead of someone mature & experienced. XD) Thank you, woman, for being that special someone. Here's to your long, happy life! (clinks shiny wine glasses)  
> Some of you might be upset because of the lack of reciprocation of dear Joan's feelings and I get it, but you can draw your own outcomes out of this. Sherlock knows, accepts and that's quite a big deal considering his sentiments toward...sentiment. What they have is unnameable, transcending friendship as well as romantic love and I didn't want to ruin it because Sherlock is a difficult character to portray. For the hopeful ones out there, the companion piece 'My Cheek' happens now, after this whole counseling ordeal is over. Make of that what you will. ;)  
> As for all you readers, thanks for those 129 kudos and the comments and the hits as well. What would I do without someone actually paying some attention to this stumbling newborn here? I would really appreciate it if you all fed me some constructive criticism, praises, flattery, I'm open to it all. XD  
> Thank you, शुक्रिया, merci beaucoup, धन्यवाद, gracias, 고맙습니다 and ধন্যবাদ yet again. I look forward to your words as that is all that is left to this story now. Come talk to me at http://got-sick-of-picking-a-username.tumblr.com/  
>  It's going to be quite lonely from here on.  
> Muah!


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